£1 


X 

LIBRARY 

I    UNIVERSITY  OF 
V 


I  '11  wear  Arcturus  for  a  bosom  pin. 


TOPEKA,  KANSAS: 

KELLAM  BOOK  AND  STATIONERY  Co.,  PUBLISHERS. 


MAIN 


COPYRIGHTED,  1889,  BY  T.  J.  KELLAM. 


PRESS   OP 

•GEO.  W.  CRANE    &   CO., 
TOPEKA. 


PREFACE. 


O'er  sunny  Kansas 

Some  commercial  Cadmus, 

In  days  unknown, 

The  teeth  of  golden  dragons  must 

have  sown; 

For  when  the  prairies 
Feel  the  breath  of  summer, 

The  trowels  ring, 

And  from  the  soil  the  "burnished 
cities  spring. 


CONTENTS. 


FAOB. 

PREFACE, 3 

THE  WASHERWOMAN'S  SONG, 9 

OH'D, .11 

KRITERION, 13 

THE  FISHER  MAIDEN, 15 

POLITICS, 16 

SHADOW, 17 

THE  HoMffipATHic  DOCTOR ,    ...  14 

THE  SUNSET  MARMATON, 18 

A  SEA-RIOUS  STORY, 20 

TARPEIA 21 

THE  AZTEC  CITY,       24 

THE  KANSAS  HERDER,       2ti 

THE  KANSAS  OCTOBER, 27 

BLUE  BIRD  OF  NOVEMBER, 2.S 

OEESE  AND  CRANES, 31 

FAILURE, 33 

QUESTION, 35 

NEWSPAPER  LOCAL,       30 

GRANGER'S  TEXT, 37 

SERENADE, 38 

DECORATION  DAY, 30 

THE  PHOTO-GRAPH-U-IST, 43 

BLAINE  OF  MAINE, 45 

MINNESONG, 4(5 

DEFAULTER,       47 

PASS, 49 

NEOPHYTE, 49 

PROTEST, -....' 50 

BIRD  SONG, 51 

THE  CHILD  OF  FATE, 54 

IOLINE,       '.55 

SPUING  CHICKEN,       59 

FRAUDS, 60 

RETROSPECTIVE, 61 

WHIST,       64 

QUIVERA — KANSAS, 64 

PRINTERS'  INK, 67 

THE  REAL, 68 

A  KANSAS  IDYL, 70 

CHAOS, 71 

KEEFE  v.  GILLON, % 72 

THE  PYTHIAN, 73 

THE  KANSAS  DUG-OUT 73 

FEAR  YE  HIM, 75 


6  CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

ALGOMAR, .    .    .    76 

GLORY, 77 

JOHN  BROWN 77 

LIFE'S  MOONRISE, 80 

LEGOUSIN  Ai, 81 

WHITHER, 81 

MEDICINE, 82 

THE  SIEGE, 84 

A  HOLY  WAR, 84 

PARESIS, 85 

THE  OLD  PIONEER, 86 

THE  VIOLET  STAR, 87 

THE  ANCHORS,      88 

SUPREME  COURT  CASE, 89 

LEAP  YEAR  PARTY, 93 

MONOLINE, 94 

MILLIONS  OP  BAD, 95 

TO-DAY, 96 

EL  MORAN, 96 

TYPE,     . 97 

THE  PRAIRIE  STORM, 98 

CHILDHOOD, 99 

INGALLS  vs.  VOORHEES, 100 

WINTER, *. 100 

THE  REASON lOt 

WARFARE, 101 

THE  LOVIST, ......  102 

THE  CRUSADES, 105 

.Hie  JONES, 106 

THE  ORGAN  GRINDER,       114 

THE  SHORT  HAIRED  POET, 118 

A  ROMANCE,      132 

A  CORN  POEM,       140 

THE  MEDICINE  MAN, 150 

^Esop's  FABLES: 

ZEPHYR  ET  CANINE, 161 

ANGUIS  ET  ANGUISH, 162 

THE  AXE-I-DENT, ' 163 

PAVO, 164 

AGRICOLA  ET  FILIUS, - 166 

THE  SWELL, 167 

PERSIMMONS, 168 

"DRAW,"' 168 

THE  INVIDIOUS  CANINE, 169 

LlMBURGER, 170 

CAPERS  ET  CAPER, .171 

THE  AGENT  AND  THE  AUGER, 172 

THE  UNSOCIABLE  MILESTONES, 173 

SUCKER  AND  SALAMANDER,       174 

LIGHTNING  BUG  AND  'SKEETER,       175 

NEUTRALIA, 177 

ADIEU, 208 


RHYMES. 


THE  WASHERWOMAN'S  SONG. 


In  a  very  humble  cot, 

In  a  rather  quiet  spot, 

In  the  suds  and  in  the  soap, 
Worked  a  woman  full  of  hope; 

Working,  singing,  all  alone, 

In  a  sort  of  undertone, 
' '  With  a  Savior  for  a  friend, 
He  will  keep  me  to  the  end." 

Sometimes  happening  along, 
I  had  heard  the  semi-song, 
And  I  often  used  to  smile, 
More  in  sympathy  than  guile; 
But  I  never  said  a  word 
In  regard  to  what  I  heard, 
As  she  sang  about  her  friend 
Who  would  keep  her  to  the  end. 

Not  in  sorrow  nor  in  glee 
Working  all  day  long  was  she, 
As  her  children,  three  or  four, 
Played  around  her  on  the  floor; 


10  RHYMES  OF  IRON  QUILL. 

But  in  monotones  the  song 
She  was  humming  all  day  long, 
' '  With  the  Savior  for  a  friend, 
He  will  keep  me  to  the  end. " 

It's  a  song  I  do  not  sing, 
For  I  scarce  believe  a  thing 
Of  the  stories  that  are  told 
Of  the  miracles  of  old; 
But  I  know  that  her  belief 
Is  the  anodyne  of  grief, 

And  will  always  be  a  friend 
That  will  keep  her  to  the  end. 

Just  a  trifle  lonesome  she, 
Just  as  poor  as  poor  could  be, 
But  her  spirits  always  rose, 
Like  the  bubbles  in  the  clothes, 
And  though  widowed  and  alone, 
Cheered  her  with  the  monotone, 
Of  a  Savior  and  a  friend 
Who  would  keep  her  to  the  end. 

I  have  seen  her  rub  and  scrub, 
On  the  washboard  in  the  tub, 
While  the  baby,  sopped  in  suds, 
Rolled  and  tumbled  in  the  duds; 
Or  was  paddling  in  the  pools, 
With  old  scissors  stuck  in  spools; 
She  still  humming  of  her  friend 
Who  would  keep  her  to  the  end. 


OH'D. 

Human  hopes  and  human  creeds 
Have  their  root  in  human  needs; 
And  I  would  not  wish  to  strip 
From  that  washerwoman's  lip 
Any  song  that  she  can  sing, 
Any  hope  that  songs  can  bring; 
For  the  woman  has  a  friend 
Who  will  keep  her  to  the  end. 


OH'D. 


[A  local  editor  having  come  to  us,  stating  that  times  were  good  but  "events" 
scarce  —  that  accidents  positively  refused  to  happen,  although  surrounded  by 
the  most  fortuitous  circumstances  — that  people  distinguished  between  their 
own  and  their  neighbors'  property  with  unusual  accuracy,  and  that  some 
poetry  must  be  had  for  the  occasion,  the  following  inspiration  was  furnished 
him  for  a  dollar.]  

Oh,  that  some  burglars 

Into  stores  would  break, 
And  heaps  of  "swag" 

Feloniously  take. 

Oh,  that  two  houses 

Would  take  fire  in  town, 
And  one  of  them  burn  up, 

And  one  burn  down. 

Oh,  that  some  one  would  strike, 

With  angry  frown, 
A  seven-foot  man  —  or  coal  bank  — 

Near  our  town. 


12  RHYMES  OF  IRON  QUILL. 

Oh,  that  some  person 
Who  despaired  of  life 

Would  run  away 

With  some  one  else's  wife. 

Oh,  that  they'd  catch 

And  bring  some  mighty  thief 
Here  to  our  town, 

Judge  Margrave  and  to  grief. 

Oh,  that  some  fiery 

Horses  would  break  loose, 

And,  like  a  gambler, 
Play  the  very  "deuce." 

Oh,  that  some  politicians 

Would  take  pride 
In  killing  rascals  off  — 

By  suicide. 

The  gold  of  Ophir 

We  may  Oh !  and  owe  for, 

But  now — just  now 

It's  "locals"  we  must  go  for. 


KRITERION.  13 


KRITERIOK 


I  see  the  spire, 

I  see  the  throng, 
I  hear  the  choir, 

I  hear  the  song; 
I  listen  to  the  anthem,  while 
It  pours  its  volume  down  the  aisle; 
I  listen  to  the  splendid  rhyme 
That,  with  a  melody  sublime, 
Tells  of  some  far-off,  fadeless  clime  - 
Of  man  and  his  finality, 
Of  hope,  and  immortality. 

Oh,  theme  of  themes! 

Are  men  mistaught? 
Are  hopes  like  dreams, 
To  come  to  naught? 
Is  all  the  beautiful  and  good 
Delusive  and  misunderstood? 

And  has  the  soul  no  forward  reach? 
And  do  indeed  the  facts  impeach 
The  theories  the  teachers  teach? 
And  is  this  immortality 
Delusion,  or  reality? 


14  RHYMES  OF  IRONQITILL. 

What  hope  reveals 

Mind  tries  to  clasp, 
But  soon  it  reels 

With  broken  grasp. 
No  chain  yet  forged  on  anvil's  brink 
Was  stronger  than  its  weakest  link; 
And  do  not  arguments  maintain 
That  many  links  along  the  chain 
Cannot  resist  a  reason  strain? 
And  is  not  immortality 
The  child  of  ideality? 

And  yet  —  at  times  — 

We  get  advice 
That  seems  like  chimes 

From  paradise; 

The  soul  doth  sometimes  seem  to  be 
In  sunshine  which  it  cannot  see; 
At  times  the  spirit  seems  to  roam 
Beyond  the  land,  above  the  foam, 
Back  to  some  half-forgotten  home. 
Perhaps  —  this  immortality 
May  be  indeed  reality. 


THE  FISHER  MAIDEN.  15 


THE  FISHER  MAIDEN. 

[From  the  German  of  Heine.] 


Thou  maiden  with  eyes  so  dreamy, 
Thou  child  of  the  waves  and  spray, 

Thy  home  is  beside  the  ocean, 

Where  the  surf  and  the  breakers  play; 

Come  sit  thee  down  here  beside  me, 
And  list  to  the  words  I  say. 

My  heart  is  a  stormy  ocean; 

And  out  on  its  rocky  slopes 
The  turbulent  billows  are  flinging 

The  spars,  and  the  keels,  and  the  ropes 
They  are  wrecks  of  my  aspirations, 

The  wrecks  of  my  ruined  hopes. 

My  heart  is  an  angry  ocean; 

The  gales  as  they  come  and  go, 
Do  strew  it  with  wrecks  and  ruin; 

But  down  in  its  light  waves  low 
The  shells  and  the  pearls  and  corals 

Do  glitter  and  gleam  and  glow. 

Wilt  thou  launch  on  this  stormy  ocean, 
Thou  child  of  the  waves  and  spray? 

'Twill  float  thee  securely  forever, 
Wherever  thy  bark  may  stray, 

Till  the  crimson  of  life's  last  twilight 
Shall  fade  in  the  west  away. 


16  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 


POLITICS. 


Ever  so  many  the  childhood  friends 

That  started  ahead  of  me, 
With  fearless  ignorance,  fearless  hope, 

To  sail  on  the  vitriol  sea; 
Little  they  knew  of  the  depth  or  the  scope 

Of  the  treacherous  vitriol  sea. 

Some  of  them  sailed  in  boats  of  wood  — 

Think  of  it !  sailed  with  glee, 
In  boats  of  wood  —  yes,  paintod  wood  ! 

Out  on  that  vitriol  sea; 
It  eat  the  boats  up  —  wood  was  not  good 

To  sail  in  a  vitriol  sea. 

Many  tried  brass,  and  some  tried  glass, 

To  sail  on  the  vitriol  sea; 
Mindless  alike  of  corrosion  or  storms, 

They  sailed  with  a  fearless  glee; 
Happy  to-day,  but  to-morrow,  in  swarms, 

To  be  wrecked  in  the  vitriol  sea. 

"Where  were  they  going,"  I  hear  you  ask, 
"That  sailed  on  the  vitriol  sea?  " 

Well,  that  is  a  something  I  do  not  know, 
A  mystery  even  to  me; 

But  still  they  did  go,  and  determined  to  go 
And  sail  on  the  vitriol  sea. 


THE  HOMEOPATHIC  DOCTOR. 


SHADOW. 


The  day  has  been  vague,  and  the  sky  has  been  bleak, 

And  things  have  gone  backward  the  whole  day  long; 
The  friends  as  I  met  them  did  scarcely  speak, 
And  vainly  the  things  I  have  lost  I  seek  ! 

And  I'm  weary  and  sad  —  and  the  world  is  wrong. 

The  morrow  has  come,  and  the  sky  has  grown  clear, 
The  world  appears  righted,  and  rings  with  song; 
The  friends  as  I  meet  them  are  merry  and  cheer, 
The  things  that  I  thought  I  had  lost  reappear, 
And  the  work  drives  forward  the  whole  day  long. 

As  the  strings  of  a  harp,  standing  side  by  side, 

Are  the  days  of  sadness  and  days  of  song; 
The  sunshine  and  shadow  are  ever  allied, 
But  the  shadows  will  fade,  and  the  sunshine  bide. 
Though  to-day  may  be  dim  and  the  world  go  wrong. 


THE  HOMCEOPATHIC  DOCTOR. 


If  like  cures  like, 

Explain  to  me,  my  brother, 
How  is  it  doctors 

Cannot  cure  each  other? 


18  RHYMES  OF  IRON  QUILL. 


THE    SUNSET   MARMATON. 


O,  Marmaton !  O,  Marmaton !  from  out  the  rich 
autumnal  west,  there  creeps  a  misty,  pearly  rest,  as 
through  an  atmosphere  of  dreams,  along  thy  course, 
O,  Marmaton  !  a  rich  September  sunset  streams.  Thy 
purple  sheen,  through  prairies  green,  from  out  the 
burning  west  is  seen. 

I  watch  thy  fine  approaching  line,  that  seems  to  flow 
like  blood-red  wine  fresh  from  the  vintage  of  the  sun. 
The  spokes  of  steel  and  blue  reveal  the  outlines  of  a 
phantom  wheel,  while  airy  armies,  one  by  one,  march 
out  on  dress  parade.  I  see  unrolled  in  blue  and  gold 
the  guidons  where  the  line  is  made,  and,  where  the  lazy 
zephyrs  strolled  along  thy  verdant  esplanade,  I  see  the 
crested,  neighing  herd  go  plunging  to  the  stream.  I 
hear  the  flying,  shrieking  scream  of  startled  bird.  The 
Kansas  day  is  done. 

O,  Marmaton!  O,  Marmaton!  thou  hast  no  story  and 
no  song ;  unto  the  vast  and  empty  past  in  which  thy 
former  life  was  cast,  thou  dost  not  yet  belong.  No 
mountain  cradle  hast  thou  had;  along  thy  line  no  sum 
mits  shine,  no  cliffs,  no  gorges,  stern  and  sad,  stand  in 
the  waning  twilight,  clad  in  melancholy  pine.  Thou 
art  the  even  tempered  child  of  prairies,  on  whose  ver 
dure  wild  eternities  have  smiled. 

O,  Marmaton!  O,  Marmaton!  be  patient,  for  thy  day 
will  come,  and  bring  the  bugle  and  the  drum.  Thy 
fame  shall  like  thy  ripples  run ;  thou  shalt  be  storied 


THE  SUNSET  MARMATON.  19 

yet.  Within  this  great  and  central  State,  the  destiny 
of  some  great  day  upon  thy  banks  is  set.  Artillery 
will  sweep  away  the  orchard  and  the  prairie  home,  and 
while  the  wheat  stacks  redly  burn,  armies  of  infantry 
will  charge  the  lines  of  works  along  thy  marge,  while 
cavalry  brigades  will  churn  thy  frightened  waters  into 
foam.  The  spell  of  centuries  will  break,  and  thou  shalt 
suddenly  awake,  and  have  a  story  that  will  make  a  na 
tion's  pulses  thrill.  And  when  again  thy  banks  are 
still,  no  new  admirer  of  the  time  can  say  of  thee  in 
feeble  rhyme:  "O,  Marmaton!  O,  Marmaton!  thou  hast 
no  story  and  no  song;  thou  hast  no  history  of  wrong; 
unto  the  vast  and  empty  past  in  which  thy  former  life 
was  cast,  thou  dost  not  yet  belong." 

O,  Marmaton!  O,  Marmaton!  the  centuries  will  pass 
along,  and  slowly,  singly,  one  by  one,  repeat  thy  story 
and  thy  song.  Thy  time  abide,  O,  Marmaton!  while 
side  by  side,  O,  Marmaton!  the  shadows  o'er  thy  prai 
ries  glide,  thy  prairies  wide,  O,  Marmaton !  For  nations 
come  and  nations  go,  whither  and  whence  we  do  not 
know.  Great  days  in  stormy  years  though  hid,  great 
years,  dark  centuries  amid,  will  ever  and  anon  emerge, 
like  life  boats  drifting  through  a  surge  where  billows 
sweep  and  mad  winds  urge.  Of  future  heed,  O,  Mar 
maton!  thou  hast  no  need,  O,  Marmaton!  with  quiet 
force,  in  quiet  course,  still  murmur  on,  O,  Marmaton! 


20  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 


A  SEA-BIOUS   STORY. 


From  Panama  to  San  Francisco  bay, 
An  overcrowded  steamship  sailed  away. 

The  third  day  out,  a  husky  miner  came 
Up  to  the  clerk,  and  calling  him  by  name, 

He  said:  "Your  ship  is  crowded,  sir,  a  heap 
Too  much  for  me;  find  me  a  place  to  sleep." 

The  clerk  responded,  with  a  stately  smile: 
' '  Sleep  where  you've  been  a  sleeping  all  the  while. 

"It  kaynt  be  did,"  the  miner  answered  quick. 
"I  slept  upon  a  deck  hand  who  was  sick; 

"He's  convalessed,  and  now  since  he  is  stronger, 
He  swears  he  won't  endure  it  any  longer." 

The  clerk  was  pleased  to  hear  the  miner's  mirth, 
And  fixed  him  with  a  "snifter"  and  a  berth. 


TAEPEIA.  2 1 


TAKPEIA. 


Upon  the  massive  walls 

The  cloudless  moonlight  falls; 
It  silver-plates  the  portico  and  fane; 

The  tawny  Tiber  drifts 

By  castellated  cliffs, 
And  bears  its  sluggish  wavelets  to  the  main. 

While  from  her  azure  height, 

The  Niobe  of  night 
Looks  wanly  down,  so  sad  yet  so  serene; 

The  Sabine  army  waits 

Before  the  massive  gates, 
That  guard  the  citadel,  Capitoline. 

Anon  the  silver  fades 

From  walls  and  colonnades; 
Clouds  scarred  with  fire  hurl  down  the  vengeful  rain; 

Impelled  by  gusty  waifs, 

The  tawny  Tiber  chafes, 
And  hurls  its  turbid  foamage  to  the  main. 

No  more  the  angles  sharp, 

Of  bastion  and  of  scarp, 
Project  their  outlines  on  the  moonlight  sky; 

But  silent  and  unseen, 

The  high  Capitoline 
Fades  in  the  shades  that  low  and  misty  lie. 


22  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

Amid  the  darkening  damp, 

The  Sabines  leave  their  camp, 
Before  the  gate  their  solid  columns  go; 

And  there  Tarpeia  stands, 

With  her  unaided  hands 
To  open  wide  the  portals  to  the  foe. 

Then  spake  the  king  to  her: 

< '  What  gift  shall  I  confer, 
O,  maid  of  Rome,  so  daring  and  so  fair  ?  " 

The  Roman  maiden  spake: 

"Those  jewels  I  will  take, 
That  on  their  arm  your  Sabine  soldiers  wear." 

The  eager  columns  march 

Beneath  the  rugged  arch; 
They  crush  the  maid  with  bracelets  and  with  shields. 

A  pledge  is  kept,  and  broke; 

And  in  the  din  and  smoke, 
The  lurid  fire  the  doom  of  war  reveals. 

Then  comes  the  gloomy  gray, 

The  harbinger  of  day  — 
Hurled  from  the  rock  Tarpeia  finds  a  grave; 

And  flaring  like  a  flume, 

The  Tiber  through  the  gloom 
Transfers  the  tomb  out  to  the  cryptic  wave. 


TARPEIA.  23 

Hope's  signal  torch  is  seen 

Upon  life's  Esqualine, 
Its  Quirinal,  its  rocky  Palatine; 

From  battlemented  walls, 

Life's  merry  warder  calls 
The  hourly  watches  from  Capitoline. 

O,  Fate!  behind  a  mask, 

You  promise  all  we  ask  — 
Wealth,  honor,  health,  and  happiness  and  fame; 

And  then  you  keep,  yet  break, 

The  promises  you  make  — 
You  take  the  substance  and  you  leave  the  name. 

Some  ask  of  you  a  crown, 

A  scepter,  or  renown; 
Some  claim  the  jewels  that  your  bright  arm  bears; 

But  then,  alas,  you  fling, 

With  every  given  thing, 
The  weight  of  troubles  and  the  crush  of  cares. 

Perhaps  'twere  best  to  wait 

Behind  the  rugged  gate, 
To  ask  no  favor  from  your  ready  hand; 

To  fight,  and  ask  no  charm 

From  off  your  jeweled  arm, 
And  be  not  crushed  with  favors  we  demand. 


24  RHYMES  OF  IRON  QUILL. 


THE  AZTEC  CITY. 


There  is  a  clouded  city,  that  doth  rest 

Beyond  the  crest 
Where  Cordilleras  mar  the  mystic  west. 

There  suns  unheeded  rise  and  re-arise; 

And  in  the  skies 
The  harvest  moon  unnoticed  lives  and  dies. 

And  yet  this  clouded  city  hath  no  night  — 

Volcanic  light 
Doth  give  eternal  noon-tide,  redly  bright. 

A  thousand  wells,  whence  cooling  waters  came, 

No  more  the  same, 
Now  send  aloft  a  thousand  trees  of  flame. 

This  clouded  city  is  enchanting  fair, 

For  rich  and  rare 
From  sculptured  frieze  the  gilded  griffins  glare. 

With  level  look  —  with  loving,  hopeful  face, 

Fixed  upon  space, 
Stand  caryatides  of  unknown  race. 

And  lofty  colonnades  are  there,  of  green, 

Hard  serpentine, 
Carved  on  whose  shafts  strange  alphabets  are  seen. 


THE  AZTEC  CITY.  25 

And  from  triumphant  arches,  looking  down 

Upon  the  town, 
In  porphyry,  sad,  unknown  statesmen  frown. 

And  there  are  lofty  temples,  rich  and  great, 

And  at  the  gate, 
Carved  in  obsidian,  the  lions  wait. 

And  there  are  palace  homes,  and  stately  walls, 

And  open  halls 
Where  fountains  are,  with  voiceless  waterfalls. 

The  ruddy  fires  incessantly  illume 

Temple  and  tomb, 
And  in  their  blaze  the  stone-wrought  blossoms  blopm. 

From  clouds  congealed  the  mercury  distills, 

And  forming  rills, 
Adown  the  streets  in  double  streamlet  trills. 

As  rains  from  clouds,  that  summer  skies  eclipse, 

From  turret  tips 
And  spire  and  porch  the  mobile  metal  drips. 

No  one  that  visited  this  fiery  hive 

Ever  alive 
Came  out  but  me  —  I,  I  alone,  survive. 


26  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 


THE  KANSAS  HERDER. 

He  rode  by  starlight  o'er  the  prairies  dim, 
While  melancholy,  with  an  aimless  whim, 
Through  trackless  grass  was  blindly  leading  him. 

And  then  he  said:    "Beneath  the  heavens'  blue  curver 
There  has  been  fate  misfortune  would  not  serve, 
There  has  been  love  misfortune  could  not  swerve." 

But  as  he  spake  these  words,  it  seemed  that  they 
Fell  volatile,  like  autumn  leaves,  and  lay 
Till  zephyrs  came  and  swept  them  all  away. 

And  then  he  said:    "O,  words  of  love,  alas! 

Lighter  than  feathers,  frangible  as  glass, 

Always  the  last  to  come,  always  the  first  to  pass." 

The  prairies,  ever  echoless,  did  make 

Him  no  response — impassible,  opaque, 

The  night  air  smothered  what  he  wildly  spake. 

Tke  prairie  larks  sang  at  the  break  of  day; 
He  heard  them  not,  but  as  he  lifeless  lay 
He  wore  a  smile,  faint,  thoughtful,  far  away. 


THE  KANSAS  OCTOBER.  27 


THE  KANSAS  OCTOBER. 


The  cheeriness  and  charm 

Of  forest  and  of  farm 
Are  merging  into  colors  sad  and  sober; 

The  hectic  frondage  drapes 

The  nut  trees  and  the  grapes  — 
September  yields  to  opulent  October. 

The  cottonwoods  that  fringe 

The  streamlets  take  the  tinge; 
Through  opal  haze  the  sumac  bush  is  burning; 

The  lazy  zephyrs  lisp 

Through  corn  fields  dry  and  crisp, 
Their  fond  regrets  for  days  no  more  returning. 

The  farm  dog  leaves  the  house 

To  flush  the  pinnate  grouse; 
The  languid  steers  on  blue-stem  lawns  are  feeding; 

The  evening  twilight  sees 

The  rising  Pleiades, 
While  autumn  suns  are  to  the  south  receding. 

To  me  there  comes  no  thrill 

Of  gloominess  or  chill, 
As  leaflets  fade  from  branches  elm  or  oaken; 

As  lifelessly  they  hang, 

To  me  there  comes  no  pang; 
To  me  no  grief  the  falling  leaves  betoken. 


28  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

As  summer's  floral  gems 

Bequeath  us  withered  stems, 
And  autumn-shattered  relics  dry  and  umber: 

So  do  these  lives  of  ours, 

Like  summer  leaves  and  flowers, 
Flourish  apace,  and  in  their  ripeness  slumber. 


THE  BLUE-BIRD  OF  NOVEMBER. 


The  wind  is  howling  wildly,  like  a  drove  of  lean  ki-yutes: 
The  steel-clad,  floating,  freezing  storm-cloud  from  the 

northwest  comes. 

I'm  in  my  cheerful  office,  reading  poems,  and  my  boots 
Are  poked  up  on  the  stove,  which  with  a  blazing  hod- 
full  hums. 

I'm  reading  of   a  blue-eyed,  wandering,   hopeful  little 
princess  looking  for  a  home. 

I  lay  my  book  of  poems  upside  down  upon  a  chair  — 
I  step  up  to  the  window,  where  a  box  of  fine-cut  stands; 
Says  I,  By  jings,  these  princesses  are  getting  mighty 

rare; 
And  always  have  such  dreadful  times  with  lovers  and 

with  plans, 
I'd   like  to  see   a   useless,   blue-eyed,   wandering  littU 

princess  looking  for  a  home. 


THE  BLUE-BIRD   OF  NOVEMBER.  29 

• :  The  world  is  full  of  sympathy,  the  world  is  full  of 
homes ; 

The  world  is  full  of  friendships,  though  hidden  they 
may  be; 

When  gone  are  friends  and  sympathy,  perforce  the 
creature  roams, 

Invoking  them,  imploring  them,  at  large,  o'er  land  and 
sea." 

.( That's  what  this  maniac  poet  writes,  about  this  blue- 
eyed  little  princess  looking  for  a  home. ) 

See  here,  you  straggling  blue-bird,  hopping  on  the  win 
dow  sill ! 

You  hop  and  flop  and  flutter,  like  a  worn-out  Greeley 
flag; 

You'd  better  hunt  your  roosting  place;  it's  winter,  and 
it's  chill, 

And  hoarse,  bleak,  evening  ice-storms  after  one  another 
tag. 

Says  she,  ' '  Unhappy  me;  I'm  nothing  but  a  wandering, 
useless  little  blue-bird,  hunting  for  a  home." 

Says  I,  Then  skip  for  Texas,  it  isn't  far  away; 

Go  down  to.  where  warm  gulf  mists  through  the  orange 

branches  swoop; 
Light  out  to  where  the  sunshine  dances  on  G-alvestoii 

"  Bay, 
The   winter-blossomed   Brazos,    the  vine-lined    Guada- 

loupe. 
If  I  were  an  itinerant,  useless,  homeless  blue-bird,  with 

your  wings,  I'd  find  a  home. 


30  RHYMES  OF  IRON  QUILL. 

Says  she,  "Speak  not  of  Guadaloupe,  the  Brazos,  the 

Bay — 
The  winter-blooming  prairies    of   that    sunny-hearted 

zone; 
I  have  flown  through  orange  branches,  I  have  floated 

on  the  spray; 

I  discover  no  companions,  and  I  find  myself  alone. 
I  find  myself  a  lonesome,  sad,  unsocial  little  blue-bird, 

longing  for  a  home. ' ' 

Into  the  raging  stove  I  then  did  boost  a  hod  of  coal, 
And  raising  up  the  winter-crusted  sash-bar  from  the 

sill, 

Says  I,  Your  lonesome  feelings  I  to  some  extent  condole: 
Tramp  in;  here's  feed  and  firelight,  be  a  tenant  at  your 

will; 
And  listen  while  I  read  a  lovely,  long-haired  poem  of  a 

princess  with  no  home. 

"The  world  is  full  of  happiness,  the  world  is  full  of 

homes, 

The  world  is  full  of  sympathy,  though  hidden  it  may  be. 
When   gone   are   friends  and    sympathy,   perforce   the 

creature  roams, 
Princess  or  blue-bird,  seeking  them,  over  the  land  or 

sea." 
That's  what  this  gifted  maniac  says,  about  his  little 

blue-eyed  princess  looking  for  a  home. 


THE  GEESE  AND   THE  CRANES.  31 


THE  GEESE  AND  THE  CRAVES. 


It  is  sunrise;   in  the  morn 
Stands  a  field  of  ripened  corn; 
And  the  rich  autumnal  rays 
Of  those  sunny  Kansas  days 
Fill  that  field  of  ripened  corn 

With  an  opalescent  haze; 
And  the  flocks  of  geese  and  cranes 
Pick  the  fallen,  golden  grains. 

It  is  noon- time;   and  the  rays 
Of  the  Indian  summer  blaze; 
And  the  field  of  ripened  corn, 
Much  more  shattered  than  at  morn, 
Seems  emerging  from  the  haze; 
Fewer  geese,  but  far  more  cranes, 
Pick  the  fallen,  golden  grains. 

It  is  evening;   and  the  haze 

Of  the  short  autumnal  days, 
Like  a  mantle,  seems  to  rest 
On  the  dark  and  leaden  west; 

Shattered  is  the  field  of  maize; 

Homeward  fly  the  geese,  the  cranes 
Linger,  picking  golden  grains. 


32  RHYMES  OF  IRON  QUILL. 

It  is  midnight;   rains  and  sleet 
On  the  blackened  landscape  beat, 

And  there  nothing  now  remains 
Of  that  field  of  standing  corn. 

But  through  darkness,  sleet  and  rains 

Comes  the  crying  of  the  cranes, 
As  they  search  through  fields  forlorn, 

Fighting  for  the  final  grains. 

Hours  the  grains,  and  life  the  field 
Where  the  golden  grains  are  had; 
And  our  habits,  good  and  bad, 
Represent  the  geese  and  cranes 
Eating  up  the  golden  grains. 
Few  the  habits  that  are  best, 
And  they  early  go  to  rest; 
But  through  sleet  and  midnight  rains 
Heard  the  clamors  are  of  cranes 
Fighting  for  the  final  grains. 


FAILURE.  33 


FAILURE. 


An  old  man  sat  upon  the  porch  at  evening; 
Down  in  the  west  the  clouds  were  banked  and  sullen; 
No  one  was  near  him,  and  with  withered  tone, 
The  old  man  spoke  unto  himself  alone: 

•'My  life  has  been  a  vanity  and  failure; 
My  wife,  my  health,  my  fortune  taken  from  me; 
While  strange  disaster,  striking  far  and  wide, 
Has  scattered  all  my  children  from  my  side. 

•  'And  here  I  am  alone,  without  a  dollar, 

The  hopes  of  youth  all  shattered  and  abandoned; 

My  life  a  failure  —  failure  from  the  first, 

A  vanity,  a  failure,  of  the  worst." 

Adown  the  west  he  looked  with  gloomy  sorrow, 
And  as  he  spoke  the  sky  grew  more  tenebral; 
From  time  to  time  the  cloud  banks  lit  with  flame, 
And  fitful  zephyrs  came,  and  died,  and  came. 

Upon  his  staff  his  hands  were  clasped  and  trembling, 
Upon  his  hands  his  brow  in  sorrow  rested, 
And  the  sad  west  did  seem  as  if  to  take 
A  tinge  more  dark  and  dismally  opaque. 

Then  all  at  once  there  seemed  to  stand  beside  him 
A  being  draped  as  if  with  phosphorescence  — 
A  form  of  beauty,  that  might  aptly  seem 
To  be  the  emanation  of  a  dream. 


34  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

So  beautiful  and  good  it  seemed,  no  mortal 
Need  but  behold  her  once  to  idolize  her ; 
While  character  and  sympathy  and  grace 
Shone  like  an  inspiration  in  her  face, 

She  placed  her  hand  upon  the  old  man's  shoulder. 
And  spoke  in  words  of  magic  tone  and  feeling : 
"Why  thus,  my  father,  do  you  sadly  brood 
O'er  withered  hopes  with  which  all  life  is  strewed? 

"Your  life,  though  toilsome,  has  not  been  a  failure; 

Old  age  may  find  you  left  without  a  dollar ; 

But    earth    has    blossomed    where    your    hands    have 

wrought, 
The  world  grown  wiser  where  your  lips  have  taught, 

"Those  coming  first  build  up  for  those  who  follow, 
Shaping  the  future  though  they  know  not  of  it; 
As  on  the  slow-wrought  ledges  coralline 
The  continents  of  future  times  are  seen. 

"Though  in  old  age,  without  a  friend  or  dollar, 
He  who  has  spent  a  life  of  honest  labor 
Can  say  with  certainty,  when  life  is  done, 
That  his  has  been  a  most  successful  one. 

1 '  There  is  no  place,  except  on  earth,  for  dollars  — 
Your  scattered  children  will  be  reunited; " 
And  then  she  stooped  and  kissed  the  old  man's  cheek, 
And  said,  "My  father,"  but  he  did  not  speak. 


QUESTION.  35 

The  vision  vanished,  but  the  old  man  moved  not, 
The  grief  was  over,  and  the  failure  ended; 
While  on  the  lifeless  face,  serene  and  fixed, 
There  seemed  a  smile  as  if  of  peace  unmixed. 

Down  in  the  west  the  banks  of  cloud  tenebral 
Did  lift  and  scatter  in  the  viewless  ether, 
And  in  their  stead,  with  mild  and  steady  light, 
There  shone  again  the  jewels  of  the  night. 


QUESTION. 


To  his  courtier  spake  the  Czar, 
Looking  o'er  the  fields  afar: 
"Count  the  plowmen  that  you  see, 
And  their  number  tell  to  me." 

From  the  palace  porch  afar 
Looked  and  answered  he  the  Czar: 
"In  the  distance  there  are  two  — 
Two  is  all  there  are  in  view." 

"Rightly  spoken,"  said  the  Czar, 

"Two  the  men  that  plowing  are; 

Tell  their  number,  if  you  can, 

If  we  call  that  plow  a  man." 


36  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

Quickly  answered  he  the  Czar: 
"Two  the  men  now  plowing  are; 
Call  that  plow  a  man,  and  then 
THREE  the  number  of  the  men." 

Flashed  with  anger  then  the  Czar, 
And  his  eye  gleamed  like  a  star, 
As  he  looked  the  courtier  through: 
"Wrong,  sir,  WRONG!  still,  only  two. 

' '  Who  shall  stand  beside  a  Czar, 
With  an  empire  spreading  far  ? 
Who  shall  give  advice  to  kings, 
Knowing  not  that  things  are  things  ? 

' '  By  the  edict  of  the  Czar, 
G-et  thee  to  Caucasus  far; 
Till  thy  life  has  taught  thee  when 
Things  are  things,  and  men  are  men. 


NEWSPAPER   LOCAL. 


'OUND  — A  lady's  rubber  shoe,  near  Main  street  bridge,  which  can  be  had 
by  calling  on  the  undersigned. 

We'd  like  to  know  what  fairy  little  foot 

This  straggling,  wandering  overshoe  encased; 

What  teeny,  tiny,  tasty  little  "toot" 

This  red-lined,  roaming  "injun-rubber  "  graced. 


THE  GRANGER'S  TEXT.  37 

A  bachelor  whose  heart  was  iron-cased, 

Or  any  other  idiotic  feller, 
Could  mourn  himself  to  death  on  this  misplaced 

And  wandering  souvenir  of  some  Cinderella. 
If  she  ain't  single,  then  these  words  we  waste; 
For  stern  and  glum 
Some  married  man  may  come 
And  interview  us  with  an  umberrella. 


THE  GRANGER'S   TEXT. 


Long  the  Topeka  convention  wrangled, 
"Good  men  for  office"  got  into  a  balk, 
Grange  nominations  were  hopelessly  tangled, 
Sargent  got  up  and  gave  them  a  talk; 
Said  to  the  delegates  quarreling  so, 
"Smooth  it  over  and  let  it  go." 

Many  a  time  I  have  thought  of  the  quarrel 

That  "good  men  for  office"  so  often  reach; 
Many  a  time  I  have  thought  that  a  moral 
Shone  like  a  lantern  in  Sargent's  speech; 

When  he  suggested  to  friend  and  foe 
"Smooth  it  over  and  let  it  go." 

When  a  fierce  editor,  boiling  with  fury. 

Paints  you  with  hot,  editorial  tar, 
Don't  start  a  libel  suit,  don't  hire  a  jury, 

Don't  seek  redress  from  the  bench  or  the  bar; 
Lies  sometimes  vanish,  facts  always  grow, 
"Smooth  it  over  and  let  it  go." 


38  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

When  you  consent  to  be  placed  on  a  ticket, 
When  you  have  made  up  your  mind  to  run, 

Leg  it  your  best  —  the  political  thicket 

Tears  off  your  clothes,  but  makes  lots  of  fan; 

If  you  are  minus  a  vote  or  so, 
"Smooth  it  over  and  let  it  go." 

Efforts  and  hopes  may  be  lighter  or  graver, 

Either  in  politics,  business  or  fame; 
Things  may  go  crooked,  and  friendships  may  waver, 
Nevertheless  the  rule  is  the  same; 

Facts  will  be  facts;  when  you  find  it  so, 
"Smooth  it  over  and  let  it  go." 


THE   SERENADE. 


In  the  pale  light 

The  angel  of  the  night, 

With  silver  sickle,  reaped  the  western  stars; 
Across  my  sleep, 
Dreamless  as  well  as  deep, 

There  came  a  ballad,  whose  remembered  bars, 
Brought  back  to  me  a  day  — 
A  year  long  passed  away. 


DECORA TION  DAT.  39 

An  old,  old  song, 

Although  forgotten  long, 
Brings  childhood  back  as  songs  alone  can  bring; 

We  see  bright  eyes, 

Behold  unclouded  skies, 
We  re-inhale  the  fragrance  of  life's  spring; 

While,  as  of  unseen  bird, 

Rustle  of  wing  is  heard. 

Shall  our  last  sleep 

Eternal  stillness  keep  ? 
Shall  pulseless  dust  enclose  a  dreamless  soul  ? 

Or  shall  we  hear 

Those  songs  so  old  and  dear, 
As  mid  tempestuous  melodies  there  roll 

Upon  our  waking  ears 

The  choruses  of  spheres  ? 


DECORATION  DAY. 

[Reel ted  at  Arlington.] 


It  is  needless  I  should  tell  you 

Of  the  history  of  Sumter, 
How  the  chorus  of  the  cannon  shook  its  walls; 

How  the  scattered  navies  gathered, 

How  the  iron-ranked  battalions 
Rose  responsive  to  the  country's  urgent  calls. 


40  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

It  is  needless  that  I  tell  you, 

For  the  time  is  still  too  recent, 
How  was  heard  the  first  vindictive  cannon's  peal; 

How  that  brothers  stopped  debating 

On  the  then  unsettled  question, 
And  referred  it  to  the  arbitrating  steel. 

It  is  needless  that  I  tell  you 

Of  the  somber  days  that  followed  — 
Stormy  days  that  in  such  slow  succession  ran; 

Of  Antietam,  Chickamauga, 

G-ettysburg,  and  Murfreesboro', 
Or  the  rocky,  cannon-shaken  Rapidaji. 

It  was  not  a  war  of  conquest, 

It  was  fought  to  save  the  Union, 
It  was  waged  for  an  idea  of  the  right; 

And  the  graves  so  widely  scattered 

Show  how  fruitful  an  idea 
In  peace,  or  war,  may  be  in  moral  might. 

Brief  indeed  the  war  had  lasted 
Were  it  waged  in  hope  of  plunder; 

Briefer  still  had  simple  glory  been  its  aim. 
But  its  long  and  sad  duration 
And  the  graves  it  has  bequeathed  us 

Thoughts  of  glory,  gold,  or  conquest  disproclaim. 


DECORA  TION  DA  Y.  41 

Need  I  mention  this  idea, 

The  invincible  idea, 
That  so  seemed  to  hold  and  save  the  nation's  life; 

That,  resistless  and  unblenching, 

Undisheartened  by  disaster, 
Seemed  the  soul  and  inspiration  of  the  strife. 

This  idea  was  of  freedom  — 

Was  that  men  should  all  stand  equal, 
That  the  world  was  interested  in  the  fight; 

That  the  present  and  the  future 

Were  electors  who  had  chosen 
Us  to  argue  and  decide  the  case  aright. 

And  the  theories  of  freedom 

These  now  silent  bugles  uttered 
Will  reverberate  with  ever  growing  tones; 

They  can  never  be  forgotten, 

But  will  work  among  the  nations 
Till  they  sweep  the  world  of  shackles  and  of  thrones. 

It  is  meet  that  we  do  honor 

To  the  comrades  who  have  fallen  — 
Meet  that  we  the  sadly  woven  garlands  twine. 

Where  they  buried  lie  is  sacred, 

Whether  'neath  the  northern  marble 
Or  beneath  the  southern  cypress-tree  or  pine. 

4 


42  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

Nations  are  the  same  as  children, 

Always  living  in  the  future, 
Living  in  their  aspirations  and  their  hopes; 

Picturing  some  future  greatness, 

Reaching  forth  for  future  prizes, 
With  a  wish  for  higher  aims  and  grander  scopes. 

It  is  proper  it  should  be  so, 

It  is  better  for  the  people 
That  they  give  their  future  nations  better  lives; 

That  they  reach  for  an  ideal, 

Though  both  difficult  and  distant, 
Though  it  be  in  dreams  alone  that  it  arrives. 

If  a  people  rest  contented 

With  the  good  they  have  accomplished, 
Then  that  nation  slowly  retrogrades  away. 

Give  a  nation  an  ideal, 

Some  grand,  noble,  central  project, 
It,  like  adamant,  refuses  to  decay. 

It's  the  duty  of  the  poet, 

It's  the  duty  of  the  statesman, 
To  inspire  a  nation's  life  with  nobler  aims; 

And  dishonor  will  o'ershadow 

Him  who  dares  not,  or  who  falsely 
His  immortal-fruited  mission  misproclaims. 


THE  PHOTO-GRAPH-U-IST.  4.3 


THE   PHOTO-GRAPH-U-IST. 


A  ROMANCE  FOUNDED  ON  FICTION. 


Yes,  very  many  pictures  this  photographist  took, 
He  glued  'em  to  a  pasteboard,  and  stuck  'em  in  a  book, 
So  when  you  wished  to  see  'em,  all  you  had  to  do  was 
look. 

To  have  their  pictures  taken,  with  joyousness  and  glee 
A  flock  of  little  maidens  came,  and  one  of  them,  O,  she 
Was  just  as  sweet  and  beautiful  as  beautiful  could  be. 

Alas,  our  photograph-u-ist  was  captured  from  the  s£art. 

For  when  she  "  struck  her  attitude  "  with  such  an  art 
less  art, 

She  glued  her  blue-eyed  picture  to  his  pasteboard  and 
his  heart. 

She  left  the  latter  picture  for  her  worshiper  to  keep. 
Too  well  had  it  been  taken,  so  accurate,  so  deep  — 
It  robbed  him  of  his  happiness,  and  even  of  his  sleep. 

And  still  that  blue-eyed  photograph  did  haunt  him  day 
and  night; 

Although  he  closed  his  peepers,  'twould  float  upon  his 
sight; 

At  last  he  says:  "A  note  to  her  I  will  write  out  out 
right." 


44:  RHYMES  OF  IRON  QUILL. 

1 '  O,  blue-eyed  little  maiden,  I  never  would  invade 
The  old  time-honored  usages  that  courtesy  hath  made, 
Unless  I  had  an  object  which  I  couldn't  have  delayed. 

•  'Allow  me,  little  maiden,  to  diffidently  say, 

How  ceaselessly  a   photograph  doth   haunt   me  night 

and  day, 
And  vainly  mental  effort  tries  to  banish  it  away. 

' '  This  picture  in  my  memory  unceasingly  doth  dwell, 
It  follows  like  a  shadow,  and  it  haunts  me  like  a  spell; 
It's  YOURS,  O  blue-eyed  maiden,  whom  I  love  so  wild 
and  well. 

"This  picture  from  my  memory  can  never  be  effaced: 
You've    left    a    mental   'negative,'    and    cruelly    have 

laced 
My  only  heart  with  yours,  within  that  crimson  peasant 

waist. 

• '  It  grieves  me  such  a  story  so  abruptly  to  relate, 
I  only  ask  a  syllable  —  your  answer  is  my  fate, 
And  happiness  or  sorrow  I  impatiently  await." 


There  is  a  stately  mansion  built  with  elegance  and  grace, 

Its  accurate  location  it  matters  not  the  case, 

It  may  be  Kansas  City,  or  some  other  noisy  place. 

There  is  a  spacious  parlor  —  I  will  not  tell  you  where, 
It's  lighted  up  with  chandeliers  into  a  perfect  glare, 
Two  persons  stand  before  a  crowd  that  has  assembled 
there, 


ELAINE  OF  MAINE.  45 

And  one  has  eyes  of  violet,  bright  as  an  amethyst, 
And  floats  her  chestnut  ringlets  on  her  shoulders  like 

a  mist; 
The  other,  he's  our  hero,  yes,  our  Photograph-u-ist. 

A  minister  is  reading  something  very  neat  and  terse. 
It  sounds  just  like  a  poem,  but  it  doesn't  come  in  verse. 
It  ends  (if  I  remember)  with,    "for  better  or  for 
worse." 

Right  well,  my  photograph-u-ist,  right  well  the  choice 

you  made, 
The  "negative"  is  now  "preserved"  you  need  not  be 

afraid, 
You've  gone  and  got  the  substance  and  the  shadow  will 

not  fade. 


ELAINE  OF   MAINE. 

(1884.) 


Lashed  to  his  flagship's  mast, 
Old  Farragut,  through  iron-guarded  bays, 
Through  fleets  of  fire,  through  batteries  ablaze, 

By  shot  and  shell  harassed, 
While  wreck  and  ruin  seemed  to  block  his  way, 
And  splintered  spars  spread  sprinkling  on  the  spray. 
Guiding  his  fleet  throughout  the  frightful  fray, 

Into  the  harbor  passed ; 
And  iron  forts  grew  still 
Beneath  the  victor's  will, 

Conquered  at  last. 


46  RHYMES  OF  IRON  QUILL. 

O,  Elaine!  amid  the  glare 
Of  party  ruin,  take  the  ship  of  state ; 
We  bind  thee  to  its  mast,  thou  statesman  great; 

And  thine  must  be  the  care 

To  guide  it  on  through  rocks  and  reefs  that  vex 
The  changing  channel  with  a  thousand  wrecks. 
And  though  the  surge  shall  sweep  its  sacred  decks, 

We  know  thou  wilt  not  spare 
Thy  grandest  efforts  to  conduct  it  by 
The  rocks  and  reefs,  and  shoals  that  seem  to  lie 

Around  it  everywhere. 


THE  MINNESONG. 

A.  D.  1191. 


Once  a  falcon  I  possessed; 

And  full  many  a  knight  and  vassal 

Watched  him  from  my  father's  castle, 
As,  in  gaudy  ribbon  dressed, 

He  would  seek  with  fiery  eye 

Battle  in  the  roomy  sky, 
And  return  to  be  caressed. 

Once  a  lover  I  possessed, 

On  the  field  of  battle  knighted, 
And  at  tournaments,  delighted, 

Did  I  watch  his  fiery  crest; 

Woven  from  the  silken  strands 
By  my  own  unaided  hands, 

Was  the  baldric  on  his  breast. 


THE  DEFAULTER.  47 

But  one  day  my  bird  did  soar, 

When  the  sky  was  black  and  stormy; 

And  my  knight,  whose  fondness  for  me 
Seemed  as  changeless  as  before, 

Rode  away  in  the  crusade; 

And  as  years  successive  fade, 
Thev  return  to  me  no  more. 


Ah!  In  every  land  and  tongue  — 
Loved  by  emperor  and  vassal, 
Serf  in  hovel,  knight  in  castle  — 

Ever  old  yet  ever  young, 

Sung  until  the  hours  grew  late, 
Was  the  song  of  love  and  fate 

Which  the  minnesinger  sung. 


THE  DEFAULTER. 


CHICAGO. 

I'll  cross  the  sea,  he  said,  and  the  future  will  be  sunny, 

The  waves  no  more  will  rave; 
I'll  cross  the  sea,  he  said,  and  with  other  people's  money 

Be  free  and  gay,  beyond  the  ocean's  wave. 

PARIS. 

I'll  move  again,  he  said,  to  Naples,  Rome  or  Venice, 

I  will  no  more  divide 
With  arrogant  detectives  —  I'll  live  in  no  more  menace, 

The  Apennines  shall  separate  us  wide. 


48  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

ROME. 

I'll  cross  the  sea,  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  melancholy, 

I  can  divide  no  more; 
I've  failed  in  being  happy  —  have  failed  in  being  jolly, 

And  justice  waits  me  on  a  distant  shore. 

CHICAGO. 

I'm  here,  he  said,  for  justice,  let  the  sentence  be  im 
partial, 

By  it  I  will  abide; 
For  my  wife  is  broken-hearted,   and  I  can  no  longer 

marshal 

Any  of  my  scattered  children  to  my  side. 
\ 

JOLIET. 

No  one,  he  said,  in  chasing  after  happiness  has  found  her; 

But  if  she  comes  at  all, 

Comes  uninvoked,  unbidden,  with  a  sunny  halo  round 
her- 

Visits  alike  the  hovel  and  the  hall. 


NEOPHYTE.  49 

PASS. 


A  father  said  unto  his  hopeful  son, 
'Who  was  Leonidas  my  cherished  one?" 

The  boy  replied,  with  words  of  ardent  nature, 
•He  was  a  member  of  the  legislature." 
•'How?"  asked  the  parent;  then  the  youngster  saith: 
14 He  got  a  pass,  and  held  her  like  grim  death." 
L>  Whose  pass?  what  pass?"  the  anxious  father  cried; 
"'Twas  the*r  monopoly,"  the  boy  replied. 


In  deference  to  the  public,  we  must  state, 
That  boy  has  been  an  orphan  since  that  date. 


NEOPHYTE. 


Last  night  a  zealous  Irishman  in  town, 

Meeting  a  Jew,  squared  off  and  knocked  him  down. 

And  when  the  Jew  inquired  of  such  behaviour, 
Michael  replied:    "Bedad,  ye  kilt  me  Savior." 

The  Jew  replied:    "My  friend,  that  is  not  so; 
It  happened  eighteen  centuries  ago." 


.50  RHYMES  OF  IRON  QUILL. 

Mike  simply  said:    "Bedad,  you  may  be  right, 
But  then  —  I  only  heard  of  it  last  night!" 

And  striking  out  reckless  again,  and  loose, 
Became  a  martyr — in  the  calaboose. 


Theology  and  ignorance  combined 
Make  bigotry,  and  that  makes  all  men  blind; 
And  streams  of  ruin  from  this  common  source 
Have  swept  the  world  with  devastating  force. 


THE  PROTEST. 


[Written  while  the  Government  was  removing  from  battle  fields  of  seces 
sion  buried  soldiers,  and  organizing  national  cemettries.] 


Let  them  rest,  let  them  rest,  where  they  fell ; 
On  the  prairie,  in  the  forest, 
'Neath  the  cypress,  or  the  laurel, 
On  the  mountain,  by  the  bayou, 

In  the  dell; 

Where  they  fought  the  soil  is  sacred, 
Let  the  country  all  be  sacred 
To  the  ones  who  fought  so  bravely, 

Long  and  well. 

Do  not  rank  them  up  in  fields, 
Under  pallid  marble  shields; 

Let  them  rest,  let  them  rest, 
Where  they  fell. 


THE  BIRD  SONG.  51 

Let  them  rest,  let  them  rest,  where  they  fell; 
All  those  places  will  be  sacred 
If  you  let  them  stay  to  guard  them; 
They  will  shroud  those  spots  with  valor 

Like  a  spell. 

And  the  soil  will  seem  as  planted 
With  the  germs  of  vital  freedom: 
Where  they  spent  their  lives  so  grandly 

Let  them  dwell. 
Do  not  rank  them  up  in  fields, 
Under  pallid  marble  shields; 

Let  them  rest  and  be  worshiped 
Where  they  fell. 


THE  BIRD  SONG. 

In  the  night  air  I  heard  the  woodland  ringing, 
I  heard  it  ring  with  wild  and  thrilling  song; 

Hidden  the  bird  whose  strange,  inspiring  singing 
Seems  yet  to  float  in  liquid  waves  along. 

Seems  yet  to  float  with  many  a  quirk  and  quaver, 
With  quirks  and  quavers  and  exultant  notes, 

As  through  the  air,  with  sympathetic  waver, 

Down  through  the  songs  the  falling  star-light  floats. 

Speaking.  I  said:   O  bird  with  songs  sonorous, 
O  bird  with  songs  of  such  sonorous  glee, 

Sing  me  a  song  of  joy,  and  in  the  chorus, 
In  the  same  chorus  I  will  join  with  thee 


52  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

The  songs  that  others  sing  seem  but  to  sadden, 
They  seem  to  sadden,  those  that  I  have  heard; 

Sing  me  a  song  whose  gleesome  notes  will  gladden  — 
Sing  me  a  song  of  joy.      Then  sang  the  bird: 

"There  is  a  land  where  blossoming  exotic, 
The  amaranths  with  fadeless  colors  glow; 

"Where  notes  of  birds  with  melodies  chaotic 
In  tangled  songs  forever  come  and  go. 

"There  skies  serene  and  bland  will  bend  above  us, 
And  from  them  blessings  like  the  rain  will  fall; 

There  those  fond  friends  that  we  have  loved  shall  love  us, 
In  that  bright  land  those  friends  shall  love  us  all. " 

The  singer  ceased,  the  melody  sonorous 

No  more  through  starlit  woodland  floats  along; 

And  as  it  ceased,  my  heart  refused  the  chorus, 
Refused  to  join  the  chorus  of  the  song. 

Talk  not,  I  said,  thou  bird  in  branches  hidden, 

Hope's  garlands  bright  grief's  fingers  slowly  weave; 

Grief  slowly  weaves  from  blooms  that  spring  unbidden — 
That  spring  perennial  when  the  heart  doth  grieve. 

Grief  present  now  proves  naught  of  the  eternal; 

Grief  proves  no  future  with  good  blessings  rife  — 
With  blessings  rife  and  futures  blandly  vernal; 

Facts  show  no  logic  in  a  future  life. 


THE  BIRD  SONG.  53 

And  then  I  said:   False  is  thy  song  sonorous  — 
Thy  song  that  floats  from  starlit  woodland  dim; 

When  we  are  gone,  and  flowers  are  blooming  o'er  us  — 
When  man  hath  gone,  there  endeth  all  with  him. 

Re-sang  the  bird:    "There  skies  shall  bend  above  us, 
And  sprinkle  blessings  like  the  rains  that  fall; 

And  those  we  loved — who  loved  us  not  —  shall  love  us, 
In  that  bright  land  shall  love  us  best  of  all." 

Then  came  a  song-burst  of  bewildering  splendor, 
That  rolled  in  waves  through  forest  corridors; 

Up  soared  the  bird,  fain  did  my  hopes  attend  her, 
And  hopes  and  songs  were  lost  amid  the  stars. 

Now  all  day  long,  upon  my  mind  intruding, 
There  comes  the  echo  of  that  last  night's  song; 

Grief  claims  the  wreck  on  which  my  mind  is  brooding, 
Hope  claims  the  facts  which  logic  claimed  so  long. 

Who  cares,  O  bird,  for  skies  that  bend  above  us? 

Who  cares  if  blessings  like  the  rain  shall  fall? 
If  only  those  who  loved  us  not  shall  love  us  — 

In  that  bright  future  love  us  best  of  all. 

Let  logic  marshal  ranks  of  facts  well  stated, 
It  leads  them  on  in  brave  though  vain  attacks; 

For,  looking  down  from  bastions  crenelated, 
Hope  smiles  derision  at  assaulting  facts. 


54  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 


THE   CHILD   OF  FATE. 


I  am  the  child  of  fate, 
What  need  it  matter  me 
Where  I  shall  buried  be! 

Death  cometh  soon  or  late, 
Whether  on  land  or  sea, 
What  may  it  matter  me! 

That  which  hope  hangs  upon 
We  can  no  insight  get; 

Blindly  fate  leads  us  on, 
Storming  life's  parapet; 

That  which  our  course  impels, 

Naught  of  the  future  tells. 

Whether  upon  the  land, 
Whether  upon  the  strand, 
What  may  it  matter  me 
Where  I  shall  buried  be! 
Death  cometh  soon  or  late, 
All  are  the  sport  of  fate. 

What  should  it  matter  me, 

Falling  as  others  fell, 

Shattered  by  shot  or  shell; 
Either  on  land  or  sea, 

Wrecked  on  the  foaming  bar,. 

Crushed  in  the  shattered  car. 


10  LINE.  55 

Whether  by  Arctic  cliffs 
Where  the  ice  current  drifts, 

Where  the  bleak  night  wind  sobs, 

Where  the  black  ice-tide  throbs; 
What  though  my  bark  may  be 

Sunk  in  some  sullen  sea! 

Each  has  his  work  and  way, 
Each  has  his  part  and  play, 

Each  has  his  task  to  do, 

Both  of  the  good  and  true. 
Though  thou  art  grave  or  gay, 

Be  thou  yet  brave  and  true. 

Work  for  the  right  and  just, 
With  an  intrepid  trust; 

Then  it  need  matter  thee 

Not  that  thou  buried  be, 
Either  on  land  or  strand, 

Either  'neath  soil  or  sea. 


IOLINE. 

[  The  poet's  muse.] 


One  black  evening  in  October 

All  the  world  seemed  sad  and  sober, 

And  a  doom 

Dark  and  dismal, 
Shrouded  all  life's  colors  prismal 
And  before  me  yawned  abysmal  ' 

Gulfs  of  gloom. 


56  RHYMES  OF  IRON  QUILL. 

Said  I  bitterly:  I  only 

Of  the  world  am  sad  and  lonely, 

I  alone 

Drain  the  chalice; 
All  the  angels  bear  me  malice, 
There  is  love  in  cot  and  palace  — 

None  my  own. 

That  dark  night  I  turned  a  traitor 
To  myself  and  my  Creator, 

And  I  said: 

Be  it  ended, 

Hope  may  make  existence  splendid, 
But  without  it,  unattended  — 

Better  dead. 

Then  a  something  seemed  to  chide  me 
From  the  darkness  there  beside  me, 
In  a  tone 

Uttered  clearly: 
"You  have  spoken  insincerely; 
There  are  those  who  you  love  dearly, 
Though  unknown." 

Who  are  you,  and  whence  your  visit  ? 
Turning  gruffly,  said  I:   Is  it 

The  unseen 

To  awaken  ? 

Said  the  voice:    "  You're  mistaken; 
It  is  loline  —  forsaken 

loline. " 


10  LINE.  57 

When  I  heard  the  sentence  uttered, 
In  bewilderment  I  stuttered 

A  remark 

Somewhat  grimly, 
As  a  form,  freshly,  primly,  . 
Grew  and  ripened  in  the  dimly 

Lighted  dark. 

Yes,  the  artless  little  comer, 
Like  a  musk  rose  in  the  summer 

Seemed  to  bloom; 

And  her  forehead 

Shook  back  tresses  that  seemed  borrowed 
From  the  winter  night,  or  quarried 

Out  of  gloom. 

With  a  smile  arch  and  airy, 
To  my  side  came  the  fairy, 
Like  a  queen 

Blithe  and  bloomy. 
•Let  us  stroll,"  said  she  to  me; 
Yes,  said  I,  for  I'm  gloomy, 
loline. 

Ah!  she  told  me  gorgeous  stories 
Of  her  home,  and  the  glories 

Of  the  zone 

Where  it  stretches. 
And  she  hummed  me  little  sketches 
Of  immortal  music,  such  as 

Sweeps  the  Throne. 


58  RHYMES  OF  IRON  QUILL. 

All  my  gloominess  was  banished; 
Then  the  moon  rose,  and  she  vanished 

Yes,  my  queen 

Had  departed, 

But  she  kissed  me  ere  she  started; 
And  she  left  me  sunny  hearted 

And  serene. 

To  that  land  of  sun  and  blossom 
She  has  built  a  bridge  of  gossamer 

And  gold: 

And  I've  traveled 
It  in  dreaming,  and  unraveled 
Dismal  doubts,  whereon  I  caviled 

Days  of  old. 

Now  no  evening  of  October 
Finds  me  ever  sad  or  sober; 

All  the  world 

Seems  a  palace; 

There  are  none  who  bear  me  malice, 
And  afar  away  the  chalice 

I  have  hurled. 


THE  SPRING   CHICKEN.  59 


THE  SPRING  CHICKEN". 


Came  the  prohibition  yawper, 

Mental  tramp  and  moral  pauper, 

And  he  worried  the  incorpor 
ated  portions  of  the  State. 

As  these  frauds  began  to  thicken. 

Loud  the  yellow-legged  chicken 

Wailed,  in  accents  terror  stricken. 
At  the  waywardness  of  fate, 

With  about  as  much  religion 

As  a  blue  jay  or  a  pigeon, 

And  a  little  —  just  a  smidgeon  — 

More  expert  than  Ananias; 
Through  the  week  day  they  did  mock  us. 
With  the  skill  they  packed  the  caucus; 
They  could  flank,  out-lie,  out-talk  us, 

And,  on  Sunday  —  Oh  !  so  pious 

Well!   no  longer  from  our  rostrums 

Do  they  peddle  social  nostrums; 

Now  no  longer  is  the  pulpit  but  the  bull  pit 

Of  a  party; 

Now  no  longer  terror  stricken 
Does  the  vernal  poultry  sicken, 
And  the  yellow-legged  chicken 

Now  is  growing  fat  and  hearty. 


00  RHYMES  OF  IRONQU1LL. 


FRAUDS. 


Ambitious,  shrewd, 
Wealthy,  vainglorious,  fond  of  show, 
Hanno  of  Carthage,  centuries  ago, 

Determined  to  be  great;   he  bought  a  brood 
Of  fledgling  parrots,  taught  them  at  his  nod 
To  scream  in  chorus:    "Hanno  is  a  god!" 

When  they  were  taught, 
He  had  a  hireling  place  them  on  the  street, 
As  if  for  sale  to  those  he  chanced  to  meet; 

But  still  by  no  one  could  the  birds  be  bought. 
Then  Hanno  passed  in  pomp,  and  gave  a  nod, 
Out  shrieked  the  parrots:    "Hanno  is  a  god!" 

Cunningly  done, 

That  night  said  Hanno,  as  he  doffed  his  clothes 
Of  silk  embroidery,  to  seek  repose  — 

Eternal  immortality  is  won; 
For  heardst  thou  not  that  superstitious  squad 
Catch  up  the  sentence,   "Hanno  is  a  god"? 


A  galley  slave, 

Condemned,  went  Hanno  o'er  the  cloudy  seas 
That  hid  the  fabled  Cassiterides; 

Wealthy  in  grief,  no  home  except  the  wave, 
Lashed  to  the  oar,  betimes  urged  by  the  rod, 
Not  very  much  a  man,  much  less  a  god. 


RETROSPECTIVE.  61 

It  could  not  win, 

For  then,  as  now,  although  the  world  applauds, 
It  turns  at  last  and  crucifies  its  frauds: 

True  to  itself,  though  late  it  may  begin, 
True  to  itself,  when  once  it  has  begun, 
Square  to  the  cross  it  spikes  them  one  by  one. 


RETROSPECTIVE. 


[  The  following  was  written  on  the  day  after  the  November  State  election, 
1882,  at  which  time  the  first  Democratic  Governor  the  State  of  Kansas  ever  had 
was  elected.  The  history  of  that  time  will  warrant  and  explain  the  verses.] 

Through  the  days  so  mild  and  mellow, 
While  the  leaves  were  growing  yellow, 
We  did  bellow — loudly  bellow 

For  a  platform  full  of   "isms;" 
Many  others  did  like  we  did, 
But  our  effort  was  unheeded, 
For  the  people  said  they  needed 

More  of  sense,  and  less  of  schisms. 

Long  we  shouted,  and  we  spouted  — 
Then  we  spouted  and  we  shouted, 
But  the  people  jeered  and  flouted 

At  the  manufactured  shams. 
Very  faintly  they  hurrahed  us. 
Little  cared  they  to  applaud  us, 
And  at  last  they  turned  and  chawed, us, 

While  our  singers  sang  their  Psalms. 


02  RHYMES  OF  IRON  QUILL. 

Female  suffrage  !  Prohibition  !  — 
We  are  now  in  a  position 
To  demand  a  new  edition  — 

A  revision,  as  of  yore; 
And  the  late  lamented  martyr, 
He  has  got  a  little  starter 
To  the  shades  where  many  a  smarter  — 

Smarter  man  has  gone  before. 

Well  !  —  we're  busted  all  to  thunder; 
They're  on  top  and  we  are  under; 
They  have  carried  off  the  plunder  — 

Left  us  sittting  on  the  fence. 
Yes,  my  noble  lord,  they've  done  it, 
They  have  gone  to  work  and  won  it. 
Run  it  ?  You  just  bet  they'll  run  it. 

Till  our  party  gets  some  sense. 

Let  us  relegate  our  preachers 
To  their  desks  as  moral  teachers; 
Governments  were  made  for  creatures 

That  are  living  now  on  earth; 
Not  for  angels  that  wear  laurels, 
But  for  men  with  woes  and  quarrels  — 
Men  of  vice  as  well  as  morals, 

Men  of  grief  as  well  as  mirth. 

If  a  man  is  on  an  isthmus, 
Or  is  troubled  with  strabismus, 
You  can  talk  from  June  till  Christmas - 
He  is  still  as  narrow-sighted; 


RETROSPECTIVE.  (13 

Add  to  this  a  poor  digestion, 

And  the  world  must  be  refreshed  on 

Some  important  moral  question, 

And  instanter  must  be  righted. 

Yes!  that  platform  was  a  jewel; 
It  were  cruel,  very  cruel, 
Now  to  use  it  up  for  fuel, 

But  it  must  and  will  be  done; 
And  our  short-haired  female  brother, 
And  our  long-haired  other,  t'other 
Brother  —  he  must  find  another, 

Go  and  get  another  one. 

And  we'll  make  another  platform, 

( What  the  darkey  called  a  i '  flat-form, ' ' ) 

Of  a  more  improved  and  pat  form 

Than  the  thing  we  had  of  late; 
And  we'll  have  no  "isms''  to  damn  it, 
And  we'll  have  no  man  to  cram  it 
Down  the  people's  throats,  or  ram  it 

Through  the  State. 

When  the  party  gets  less  antic 
Over  "isms,"  and  less  frantic 
Over  frauds  that  sycophantic 

Fools  rehearse, 
Then  the  party  will  be  victor, 
And  will  march  — why,  bless  your  pictur! — 
Prouder  than  a  Roman  lictor; 

Now  its  lict  —  or  worse. 


RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

WHIST. 


Hour  after  hour  the  cards  were  fairly  shuffled, 
And  fairly  dealt,  but  still  I  got  no  hand; 

The  morning  came;  but  I,  with  mind  unruffled. 
Did  simply  say,  "I  do  not  understand." 

Life  is  a  same  of  whist.      From  unseen  sources 

o 

The  cards  are  shuffled,  and  the  hands  are  dealt. 
Blind  are  our  efforts  to  control  the  forces 

That,  though  unseen,  are  no  less  strongly  felt. 

I  do  not  like  the  way  the  cards  are  shuffled. 

But  still  I  like  the  game  and  want  to  play; 
And  through  the  long,  long  night  will  I,  unruffled. 

Play  what  I  get,  until  the  break  of  day. 


QUIVERA— KANSAS. 

1542—1882. 


In  that  half-forgotten  era, 
With  the  avarice  of  old, 
Seeking  cities  that  were  told 
To  be  paved  with  solid  gold, 

In  the  kingdom  of  Quivera  — 

Came  the  restless  Coronado 

To  the  open  Kansas  plain. 

With  his  knights  from  sunny  Spain; 

In  an  effort  that,  though  vain, 
Thrilled  with  boldness  and  bravado. 


Q  Uiy ERA  —  KANSAS.  (>  5 

League  by  league,  in  aimless  marching, 
Knowing  scarcely  where  or  why, 
Crossed  they  uplands  drear  and  dry, 
That  an  unprotected  sky 

Had  for  centuries  been  parching. 

But  their  expectations,  eager, 
Found,  instead  of  fruitful  lands, 
Shallow  streams  and  shifting  sands, 
Where  the  buffalo  in  bands 

Roamed  o'er  deserts  dry  and  meager. 

Back  to  scenes  more  trite,  yet  tragic, 

Marched  the  knights  with  armor 'd  steeds; 
Not  for  them  the  quiet  deeds; 
Not  for  them  to  sow  the  seeds 

From  which  empires  grow  like  magic. 

Never  land  so  hunger  stricken 

Could  a  Latin  race  remold; 

They  could  conquer  heat  or  cold  — 

Die  for  glory  or  for  gold  — 
But  net  make  a  desert  quicken. 

Thus  Quivera  was  forsaken; 

And  the  world  forgot  the  place, 

Until  centuries  apace 

Came  the  blue-eyed  Saxon  race, 
And  it  bade  the  desert  waken. 


06  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

And  it  bade  the  climate  vary; 
And  awaiting  no  reply 
From  the  elements  on  high, 
It  with  plows  besieged  the  sky — 

Vexed  the  heavens  with  the  prairie. 

Then  the  vitreous  sky  relented, 
And  the  unacquainted  rain 
Fell  upon  the  thirsty  plain, 
Whence  had  gone  the  knights  of  Spain. 

Disappointed,  discontented. 

Sturdy  are  the  Saxon  faces, 
As  they  move  along  in  line; 
Bright  the  rolling-cutters  shine, 
Charging  up  the  State's  incline, 

As  an  army  storms  a  glacis. 

Into  loam  the  sand  is  melted, 

And  the  blue-grass  takes  the  loam. 
Round  about  the  prairie  home; 
And  the  locomotives  roam 

Over  landscapes  iron-belted. 

Cities  grow  where  stunted  birches 
Hugged  the  shallow  water  line, 
And  the  deepening  rivers' twine 
Past  the  factory  and  mine, 

Orchard  slopes  and  schools  and  churches. 


PRINTER'S  INK.  07 

Deeper  grows  the  soil  and  truer, 

More  and  more  the  prairie  teems 

With  a  fruitage  as  of  dreams; 

Clearer;  deeper,  flow  the  streams, 
Blander  grows  the  sky,  and  bluer. 

We  have  made  the  State  of  Kansas, 

.And  to-day  she  stands  complete  — 

First  in  freedom,  first  in  wheat; 

And  her  future  years  will  meet 
Ripened  hopes  and  richer  stanzas. 


As  Samuel  hewed  A-gag  to  pieces  in  the  presence  of  the  king, 
so  we  would  like  to  hew  one  to  pieces  in  the  presence  of  the 
"Wild,  wild  West." 

PRINTER'S  INK. 


Once  spoke  a  teacher  to  his  pupils,   "Name 
The  metal  that  most  honors  men  with  fame." 

Then  shout  the  pupils,  in  a  chorus,   "Steel; 
Before  the  sabre  must  the  scepter  reel." 

"Wrong,"  spoke  the  teacher;  "try  again,  and  name 
The  metal  that  most  honors  men  with  fame." 

Then  shout  the  pupils,  in  a  chorus,   "G-old; 
For  it  can  buy,  and  honors  all  are  sold." 


68  RHYMES  OF  IRON  QUILL. 

"Wrong,"  spoke  the  teacher;    "try  once  more  to  name 
The  metal  that  most  honors  men  with  fame. " 

They  all  were  silent;  then  spoke  one,   "I  think 
That  mighty  metal  must  be  printer  zinc." 

"Right,"  spoke  the  teacher;  "for  it  doth  not  fail 
To  make  the  nations  tremble  and  turn  pale." 

Then  shout  the  students,  in  a  chorus,   "Right  — 

The  world  most  honors  that  which  hath  most  might." 


THE  REAL. 


They  say 
A  flower  that  blooms,  I  know  not  whither, 

Perhaps  in  sunny  skies, 

Is  called  the  amaranth.      It  will  not  wither, 
It  never  dies. 

I  never  saw  one. 

They  say 
A  bird  of  foreign  lands,  the  condor, 

Never  alights, 

But  through  the  air  unceasingly  doth  wander 
In  long,  aerial  flights. 
T  never  saw  one. 


THE  REAL,  69 

They  say 
That  in  Egyptian  deserts,  massive, 

Half  buried  in  the  sands, 

Swept  by  the  hot  sirocco,  grandly  impassive, 
The  statue  of  colossal  Memnon  stands. 
I  never  saw  it. 

They  say 
A  land  faultless,  far  off  and  fairy  — 

A  summer  land,  with  woods  and  glens  and  glades, 
Is  seen  where  palms  rise  feathery  and  airy, 

And  from  whose  lawns  the  sunlight  never  fades. 
I  never  saw  it. 

They  say 
The  stars  make  melody  sonorous, 

While  whirling  on  their  poles. 
They  say  through  space  this  planetary  chorus 
Magnificently  rolls. 

I  never  heard  it. 

Now  what 
Care  I  for  amaranth  or  condor, 

Colossal  Memnon,  or  the  fairy  land, 
Or  for  the  songs  of  planets  as  they  wander 
Through  arcs  superlatively  grand. 
They  are  not  real. 

Hope's  idle 
Dreams  the  real  vainly  follows, 

Facts  stay  as  fadeless  as  the  Parthenon, 
While  fancies,  like  the  summer-tinted  swallows, 

Flit  gaily  mid  its  arches  and  are  gone. 


70  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 


A  KASAS  IDYL. 

Into  a  frontier  town  of  Kansas  came 

An  aborigine,  with  moccasins  and  war  paint; 

And  he  bore  the  look  —  wan  look  —  of  the 

Untutored  savage.      There  did  also  come 

A  proud  Caucasian,  in  boots  and  spurs  and  pistols 

Clad  —  a  rover,  full  of  strange  oaths,  and 

Bearded,  like  his  pard.     He  had  a  classic 

Brow.      In  youth  at  Yale  a  stroke-oar  he 

Had  been,  and  deemed  a  youth  of  power  and  culture 

Rare.      They  each  to  each  a  stranger 

Sought  this  Kansas  village  in  pursuit 

Of  ardent  spirits.      Prohibition  held  full  sway, 

And  the  unrelenting  man  of  drugs  and 

Merchandise  refused  to  sell  the  article 

Demanded.      Away  in  anger  and  disgust 

The  proud  Caucasian  strode,  and  as 

His  fervid  language  percolated  through 

The  filmy  ether,  spectators  at  a  distance 

Thought  that  an  aurora  borealis  was 

On  exhibition.      Back  to  his  ranch  returning, 

He  to  bed  went  sober.      But  the  aborigine 

With  more  stoicism  met  refusal  from 

The  man  of  drugs,  and  purchasing  of  hair  oil 

A  quart  bottle,  to  his  wigwam  went. 

Into  that  oil  that  aborigine  some  water  poured, 

And  by  a  process  of  disintegration  the 

Alcohol,  with  which  the  oil  was  cut, 


CHAO&  71 

United  with  the  water,  and  the  oil, 
Floating  above,  was  gently  skimmed  away. 
And  then  the  noble  aborigine  proceeded 
To  become  inebriated,  and  well  did  he 
Succeed,  and  went  to  bed  in  a  condition 
That  the  rover  would  have  envied. 

'Tis  ever  thus  that  the  untutored  savage, 

Who  yearning  after  nature's  means  and  measures, 

With  pure  and  child-like  instinct  seeks  to  ravage 
The  dim  arcana  of  its  mystic  pleasures, 
And  wrest  from  nature's  vault  its  cryptic  treasures. 

While  by  his  side,  clogged  with  redundant  learning, 

The  proud  Caucasian  swears,  and  gets  left,  yearning. 


CHAOS. 


I've  seen  the  ice-clad  river  leave  its  banks, 
And  tear  through  hills  of  time-enduring  rock; 

Squadrons  I've  seen,  that  charging  ranks  on  ranks. 
Did  make  the  planet  tremble  with  their  shock. 

I've  seen  red  navies  with  their  walls  of  oak 
Sink  like  a.  bubble  in  the  frantic  main; 

I've  seen  proud  cities  wander  off  in  smoke; 
I've  seen  autumnal  ruin  sweep  the  plain. 

I've  stood  at  midnight  on  the  rocky  height 
That  bars  the  purple  meadows  of  the  west; 

I've  seen  the  silent  empress  of  the  night 

Sail  slowly  on  while  splendoring  crest  on  crest. 


72  RHYMES  OF  1RONQUILL. 

But  never  have  I  seen,  in  earth  or  air, 
Plot,  reason,  relevancy.      I  scan 

An  unplanned  chaos,  shaping  here  and  ther; 
The  greatness  and  the  littleness  of  man. 


KEEFE  VS.  GILLON. 

[A  winter  controversy.] 


The  oyster  war 

Still  rages  on  the  field; 
Like  last  year's  wheat  crop, 

Neither  one  will  "yield." 

On  Market  street, 

The  war-like  chieftain  G-illon, 
Much  oyster  soup 

Down  hungry  throats  is  spillin. 

While  down  on  Main 

We  hear  the  dreadful  strife; 
Keefe  heads  his  phalanx 

With  an  oyster  knife. 

It  is  the  strangest  war 

I  ever  saw; 
Chiefs  in  a  "stew," 

And  the  recruits  all  "raw." 

A  ghastly  pun 

Across  our  conscience  flits: 
Let's  call  this  war, 

The  fight  of  oyster-litz. 


THE  KANSAS  DUO-OUT.  73 


THE  PYTHIAN. 

I  am  the  sybil  of  the  right  divine, 

Who  spoke  the  sayings  of  the  Delphic  shrine; 

In  after  years  this  saying  you'll  recall, 
"Marry  the  man  who  loves  thee  most  of  all;" 
And  who  he  is  thou  needest  never  guess, 
Who  chatters  most  is  he  who  loves  the  less. 


THE  KANSAS  DUG-OUT. 


Stuck  into  a  Kansas  hillside,  far  away, 
Is  a  cabin  made  of  sod  and  built  to  stay; 

Through  the  window-like  embrazure 
Pours  the  mingled  gold  and  azure 
Of  the  morning  of  a  gorgeous  Kansas  day. 

Round  the  cabin  clumps  of  roses,  here  and  there, 
With  their  wild  and  welcome  fragrance  fill  the  air; 
And  the  love  Of  heaven  settles 
On  their  pensive  pink-lined  petals, 
As  the  angels  come  and  put  them  in  their  hair. 

Blue-eyed  children  round  the  cabin  chase  the  day; 
They  are  learning  life's  best  lesson  —  how  to  stay,, 

To  be  tireless  and  resistful; 

And  the  antelope  look  wistful, 
And  they  want  to  join  the  children  in  their  play. 


74:  RHYME 8  OF  IRONQUILL. 

Fortune-wrecked  the  parents  sought  the  open  "West. 
Leaving  happy  homes  and  friends  they  loved  the  best; 

Homes  in  cities  bright  and  busy 

That  responded  to  the  dizzy, 
To  the  whirling  and  tumultuous  unrest. 

Oft  it  happens  unto  families  and  men 

That  they  need  must  touch  the  mother  earth  again; 

Rising,  rugged  and  reliant, 

Like  Aiitseus,  the  old  giant, 
Then  they  dare  to  do  great  things,  and  not  till  then. 

As  around  his  neck  the  arms  of  children  twine, 
Then  the  father  says:   Have  courage,  children  mine; 

Though  the  skies  around  thee  blacken, 

Courage!  —  the  gales  will  slacken; 
And  the  future  with  its  promise  shall  be  thine. 

Happy  prairie  children!     Time  with  rapid  wings 
To  the  earnest  soul  the  golden  trophy  brings. 

As  the  Trojan  said:    "Durate 

Vosmet  rebus  et  servate"*— 
"Hold  yourselves  in  hand  for  higher,  nobler  things." 


id,  I,  207. 


'FEAR   YE  HIM."  75 


FEAR  YE  HIM." 


I  fear  Him  not, 

Nor  yet 
Do  I  defy. 

Much  could  He  harm  me, 
Cared  he  but  to  try. 

Much  could  He  frighten 

Me, 

Much  do  me  ill, 
Much  terrify  me, 
But  —  He  never  will. 

The  soul  of  justice 

Must 

Itself  be  just; 
Who  trembles  most 
Betrays  the  most  distrust. 

So,  plunging  in  life's 

Current 

Deep  and  broad, 
I  take  my  chances, 
Ignorant —  unawed. 


76  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 


ALGOMAR 


loline,  my  loline, 

Will  you  be  no  more  my  queen ; 

Must  you  always  stay? 
Is  my  waiting  unavailing  ; 
Must  all  wishes  end  in  failing, 

Must  all  hope  decay? 
Must  all  happiness  at  last 
Fade  into  the  past  ? 

It  is  longer  than  a  year 

Since  you  came  to  see  me  here, 

Earnest  loline ; 

Since  you  came  in  moonlight  beamy, 
Came  to  cheer  me  and  to  see  me, 

To  be  loved  and  seen  ; 
Since  you  left  that  pearly  star, 
Far  off  Algomar. 

Come  and  sing  to  me  once  more, 
As  you  often  have  before, 

Songs  of  other  zones. 
Come  and  hum  those  airy,  sketchy 
Arias,  so  bright  and  catchy, 

Taken  from  the  tones 
That,  unheard  by  human  ears, 
Thrill  the  radiant  spheres. 


JOHN  BROWN.  77 


GLORY. 


A  rocket  scaled  the  terraces  of  night, 
And  yet 
Reached  not  the  parapet. 

I  told  a  noble  hearted  friend  of  mine 
That  he, 
Though  great,  still  greater  yet  should  be. 

He  rose  as  did  Acestes'  arrow  rise, 
He  burned, 
And  burning,  into  ashes  turned. 

He  rose,  and  rising  blazed,  and  burned  away, 
And  yet 
He  failed  to  reach  the  parapet. 


JOHN  BROWN. 


States  are  not  great 
Except  as  men  may  make  them; 
Men  are  not  great  except  they  do  and  dare. 

But  States,  like  men, 
Have  destinies  that  take  them  — 
That  bear  them  on,  not  knowing  why  or  where. 


78  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

The  WHY  repels 
The  philosophic  searcher  — 
The  WHY  and  WHERE  all  questionings  defy, 

Until  we  find, 

Far  back  in  youthful  nurture, 
Prophetic  facts  that  constitute  the  WHY. 

All  merit  comes 
From  daring  the  unequal; 
All  glory  comes  from  daring  to  begin. 

Fame  loves  the  State 
That,  reckless  of  the  sequel, 
Fights  long  and  well,  though  it  may  lose  or  win. 

Than  in  our  State 
No  illustration  apter       v 
Is  seen  or  found  of  faith,  and  hope,  and  will. 

Take  up  her  story: 
Every  leaf  and  chapter 
Contains  a  record  that  conveys  a  thrill. 

And  there  is  one 

Whose  faith,  whose  fight,  whose  failing, 
Fame  yet  shall  placard  on  the  walls  of  time. 

He  dared  begin  — 
Despite  the  unavailing; 
He  dared  begin,  when  failure  was  a  crime. 


JOHN  BROWN.  79 

When  over  Africa 
Some  future  cycle 
Shall  sweep  the  lake-gemmed  uplands  with  its  surge; 

When,  as  with  trumpet 
Of  Archangel  Michael, 
Culture  shall  bid  a  colored  race  emerge; 

When  busy  cities 
There,  in  constellations, 
Shall  gleam  with  spires  and  palaces  and  domes, 

With  marts  wherein 
Are  heard  the  noise  of  nations; 
With  summer  groves  surrounding  stately  homes  — 

There,  future  orators 
To  cultured  freemen 
Shall  tell  of  valor,  and  recount  with  praise 

Stories  of  Kansas, 
And  of  Lacedgemon  — 
Cradles  of  freedom,  then  of  ancient  days. 

From  boulevards 
Overlooking  both  Nyanzas, 
The  statured  bronze  shall  glitter  in  the  sun, 
With  rugged  lettering: 

"JOHN  BROWN,  OF  KANSAS: 

HE  DARED  BEGIN; 

HE  LOST, 

BUT,    LOSING,    WON." 


80  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 


LIFE'S  MOONRISE. 


No  sunrise,  no  noon,  no  sunset; 

On  the  prairie,  like  a  pall, 
All  day  hung  the  storm,  and  from  it 

A  heart  ache  did  seem  to  fall. 

In  the  evening  all  was  over, 

And  the  moon  rose  round  and  high, 

While  pure  as  the  love  of  an  angel 
Grew  the  glittering,  starlit  sky. 

And  the  red  deer  and  the  primrose 
And  the  prairie  larks  were  gay, 

Till  night,  with  its  filmy  beauty, 

Was  merged  in  the  broad,  bright  day. 

Some  lives  have  a  cloudless  sunrise, 
And  some  have  a  noontide  bright; 

o 

And  others  a  day  of  sunshine, 
With  rainy  and  cheerless  night. 

My  life  had  been  sad  and  rainy 
Through  its  long  and  somber  day, 

Till  at  last  there  did  come  the  moonrise 
As  the  storm-clouds  rolled  away. 

I'm  living  now  in  life's  moonrise, 
For  the  day  of  my  youth  has  set; 

But  there  comes  to  me  no  suggestion 
Of  sorrow,  or  vain  regret. 


WHITHER.  81 


I'm  seeing  new  worlds  and  planets 
Flash  out  from  the  evening  sky, 

And  my  soul  feels  a  wild,  new  daring 
As  the  night  wind  whispers  by. 

I'm  taking  110  heed  of  the  future, 
Nor  a  past  that  has  flown  away; 

And  I'm  simply  hoping  the  moonlight 
May  merge  in  the  broad,  bright  day. 


LEGOUSIN  AI. 

[From  the  Greek  of  Anacreon.] 

The  women  say: 

"Anacreon,  you  are  cftd; 

For,  taking  up  a  mirror,  you  behold 
The  locks  of  rosy  youth  how  scattered  they." 

But  as  a  care, 

It  is  not  unto  me 

How  old  am  I,  how  few  my  locks  may  be, 
So  long  as  youth's  young  spirit  still  is  there. 


WHITHER. 


Beside  a  pool  where  curved  a  Kansas  brook, 
Trying  to  fish,  a  boy  stood  brown  and  tan; 

A  lump  of  lead  held  down  a  baited  hook, 
And  as  I  watched  the  eager  little  man 

From  thought  to  thought  some  strange  suggestions  ran. 


82  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

Perhaps  the  soul,  as  if  imprisoned  here, 
Is  weighted  down  with  lump  of  heavy  clay, 

Beneath  the  ocean  of  the  atmosphere; 

Fain  would  it  rise,  and  yet  perforce  must  stay, 

Deep  in  the  night,  yet  which  we  think  the  day. 

At  times  we  feel  as  if  a  line  did  draw, 

Then  it  does  seem  as  if  we  rose,  and  light 

Does  seem  to  come;   and  then  some  unknown  law 
Does  seem  to  pull  us  backward  in  our  flight, 

And  hold  us  to  the  bottom  of  the  night. 


MEPICINE. 

[  The  Fort  Scott  doctors  organized  under  the  statute  into  a  medical  society, 
and,  the  majority  being  old  school,  "  heroic,"  doctors,  refused  admittance  to  a 
lady  doctor  of  their  own  class,  and  to  all  homoeopath1  sts.J 


CHAPTER  I. ANCIENT. 

In  the  days  of  the  twelve  apostles, 
The  strangest  the  earth  hath  seen, 

When  through  the  Judean  cities, 
With  the  lowly  Nazarene, 

They  healed  all  the  gathered  people 
Of  populous  Palestine; 

When  pouring  from  town  and  village, 
On  the  litter  and  on  the  crutch, 

The  populace  sought  the  apostles, 
Praising  them  overmuch, 

Who,  standing  beside  the  Nazarene, 
Healed  all  with  the  mystic  touch; 


MEDICINE.  83 

Then  many  a  lonely  woman, 

From  many  a  distant  route, 
From  the  sea  coast,  from  the  lake  side, 

From  the  mountains  and  hills  about, 
Applied  to  the  twelve  apostles, 

Who  cast  all  the  devils  out. 

CHAPTER    II. MODERN. 

The  doctors  of  Bourbon  county, 

In  a  conclave  grim  and  great, 
They  met  and  they  bound  together 

By  a  statute  of  the  State, 
And  the  way  they  cast  out  devils 

Is  ludicrous  to  relate. 

Then  one  of  them  spake,   "This  quackery, 

My  feeling  with  anger  thrills; 
These  fraudulent  homoeopathists, 

They  even  can't  cure  the  chills; 
And  what  in  the  world  can  a  woman  know 

In  regard  to  a  woman's  ills?  • 

The  meeting  then  went  to  business 

In  a  manner  extremely  human; 
They  scooped  the  illustrious  dozen 

In  proficiency  and  acumen, 
For  they  cast  not  only  the  devils  out, 

But  they  even  cast  out  the  woman. 


84  RHYMES  OF  ItiONQUILL. 


THE  SIEGE  OF  DJKLXPRWBZ. 


Before  a  Turkish  town, 

The  Russians  came, 
And  with  huge  cannon 

Did  bombard  the  same. 

They  got  up  close 

And  rained  fat  bombshells  down, 
And  blew  out  every 

Vowel  in  the  town. 

And  then  the  Turks, 

Becoming  somewhat  sad, 

Surrendered  every 
Consonant  they  had. 


A  HOLY  WAR. 

[The  Russo-Turkish  campaign.] 

On  the  south  is  seen  an  empire,— 
Mosque  and  minaret,  in  frenzy, 
From  the  Ind  to  Adriatic, 

Send  their  influence  and  riches; 
Arid  the  holy  shrine  of  Mecca 
Pours  out  gold  and  absolution, 
While  it  speeds  the  Prophet's  children 

To  the  hospitals  and  ditches. 


PARESIS.  85 

On  the  north  a  Christian  empire 
In  the  name  of  Christ  is  acting; 
Mobs,  to  gain  a  benediction, 

Rally  'round  a  bishop's  mitre; 
And  they  use  the  church's  treasure, 
In  the  holy  name  of  Jesus, 
While  they  march  away  His  children 

To  the  vulture  and  the  nitre. 

We  may  hope  to  see  an  era 
That  has  fewer  orphan  children  — 
That  objects  to  shrieking  bugle 

And  the  sight  of  blazing  village  — 
When  religion,  in  the  future, 
Shall  refuse  to  be  the  agent 
By  which  merciless  ambition 

Furthers  schemes  of  public  pillage. 


PARESIS. 


On  the  shores  of  Yellow  Paint 
I  have  heard  the  tempest  roar; 

I  have  heard  the  falling  crash 
Of  the  lightning-riven  ash; 
Seen  the  branches  of  the  oak 
Like  the  world  at  large,  half-broke, 
Seen  the  shattered  sycamore. 


86  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

Men  and  trees  are  scarcely  twain, 
And  the  rules  alike  obtain, 

For  the  highest  of  renown 
Are  the  surest  stricken  down; 
But  the  stupid  and  the  clown 
They  remain. 


THE   OLD  PIONEER. 


Where  are  they  gone?     Where  are  they  — 

The  faces  of  my  childhood  ? 
I've  sought  them  by  the  mountains, 

By  the  rivers,  by  the  canyons; 
I  have  called  upon  the  prairie, 

I  have  called  upon  the  wildwood: 
O,  give  me  back!     O,  give  me  back 

The  faces  of  my  childhood! 
The  boys  and  girls, 

My  playmates,  my  companions. 

The  days  of  early  childhood 

Have  a  strange,  attractive  glimmer, 
A  lustrous,  misty  fadelessness 

Half  seen  and  yet  half  hidden, 
As  of  isles  in  distant  oceans, 

Where  the  shattered  moonbeams  shimmer, 
Concealing  half,  disclosing  half, 

With  rapturing,  fracturing  o^ 
The  realms  in  which 

Our  visits  are  forbidden. 


THE  VIOLET  STAR.  87 

It's  vainly  that  I  call  upon 

The  mountains  or  the  canyons; 
And  vainly  from  the  forest, 

From  the  river  or  the  wildwood, 
Do  I  ask  the  restoration 

Of  my  playmates,  my  companions; 
No  voice  returns  from  mountain  side, 

From  forest  or  from  canyons; 
They've  gone  from  me  forever, 

The  faces  of  my  childhood. 


THE  VIOLET  STAR. 


"I  have  always  lived,  and  I  always  must," 

The  sergeant  said,  when  the  fever  came; 
From  his  burning  brow  we  washed  the  dust, 
And  we  held  his  hand,  and  we  spoke  his  name. 

"Millions  of  ages  have  come  and  gone," 

The  sergeant  said  as  we  held  his  hand; — 

' '  They  have  passed  like  the  mist  of  the  morning  dawn 
Since  I  left  my  home  in  that  far  off  land." 

We  bade  him  hush,  but  he  gave  no  heed — 
"Millions  of  orbits  I  crossed  from  far  — 
Drifted  as  drifts  the  cotton  wood  seed; 
I  came,"  said  he,   "from  the  Violet  Star. 


88  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

' '  Drifting  in  cycles  from  place  to  place — 

I'm  tired,"  said  he,   "and  I'm  going  home 
To  the  Violet  Star,  in  the  realms  of  space, 
Where  I  loved  to  live,  and  I  will  not  roam. 

"For  I've  always  lived,  and  I  always  must, 

And  the  soul  in  roaming  may  roam  too  far; 
I  have  reached  the  verge  that  I  dare  not  trust, 
And  I'm  going  back  to  the  Violet  Star." 

The  sergeant  hushed,  and  we  fanned  his  cheek; 

There  came  no  word  from  that  soul  so  tired; 
And  the  bugle  rang  from  the  distant  peak, 

As  the  morning  dawned  and  the  pickets  fired. 

The  sergeant  was  buried  as  soldiers  are; 

And  we  thought  all  day,  as  we  marched  through 

the  dust: 
His  spirit  has  gone  to  the  Violet  Star — 

He  always  has  lived,  and  he  always  must. 


THE  anchors  are  strong  that  hold  the  ships; 

The  wire  is  strong  that  bridges  the  fall; 
But  all  of  their  strength  must  suffer  eclipse 
Compared  with  the  words  of  a  woman's  lips, 

For  she  binds  the  man  that  has  made  them  all. 


LEWIS  V.  THE  STATE.  89 

IN   THE    SUPREME    COURT,    STATE   OF  KANSAS. 

GEORGE  LEWIS,   Appellant, 

vs. 
STATE  OF  KANSAS,  Appellee. 

Appeal  from  Atchison  County. 


SYLLABUS. 

Law — paw;  guilt — wilt.  When  upon  thy  frame  the  law — places 
its  majestic  paw — though  in  innocence  or  guilt — thou  art  then 
required  to  wilt. 

STATEMENT  OF  CASE  BY  REPORTER. 
This  defendant,  while  at  large, 
Was  arrested  on  a  charge 
Of  burglarious  intent, 
And  direct  to  jail  he  went. 
But  he  somehow  felt  misused, 
And  through  prison  walls  he  oozed, 
And  in  some  unheard-of  shape 
He  effected  his  escape. 

Mark  you  now!  —  again  the  law 
On  defendant  placed  its  paw, 
Like  a  hand  of  iron  mail, 
And  resocked  him  into  jail; 
Which  said  jail,  while  so  corralled. 
He  by  sock-age  tenure  held. 


90  RHYMES  OF  IRON  QUILL. 

Then  the  court  met,  and  they  tried 
Lewis  up  and  down  each  side, 
On  the  good,  old-fashioned  plan; 
But  the  jury  cleared  the  man. 

Now,  you  think  that  this  strange  case 
Ends  at  just  about  this  place. 
Nay,  not  so.      Again  the  law 
On  defendant  placed  its  paw — 
This  time  takes  him  'round  the  cape 
For  effecting  an  escape; 
He,  unable  to  give  bail, 
Goes  reluctantly  to  jail. 

Lewis,  tried  for  this  last  act, 
Makes  a  special  plea  of  fact: 
"Wrongly  did  they  me  arrest, 
As  my  trial  did  attest. 
And  while  rightfully  at  large. 
Taken  on  a  wrongful  charge, 
I  took  back  from  them  what  they 
From  me  wrongly  took  away." 

When  this  special  plea  was  heard, 
Thereupon  THE  STATE  demurred. 

The  defendant  then  was  pained 
When  the  court  was  heard  to  say, 
In  a  cold,  impassive  way— 
"The  demurrer  is  sustained." 


LEWIS  V.  THE  STATE.  91 

Back  to  jail  did  Lewis  go; 

But,  as  liberty  is  dear, 

He  appeals,  and  now  is  here 
To  reverse  the  court  below. 

The  opinion  will  contain 

All  the  statements  that  remain. 

ARGUMENT  AND  BRIEF  OF  APPELLANT. 

1  -As  a  matter,  sir,  of  fact, 
Who  was  injured  by  our  act  — 
Any  property  or  man?— 
Point  it  out,  sir,  if  you  can. 
Can  you  seize  us  when  at  large 
On  a  baseless,  trumped-up  charge; 
And,  if  we  escape,  then  say 
It  is  crime  to  get  away — 
When  we  rightfully  regained 
What  was  wrongfully  obtained? 

"  Please-the-court-sir,  what  is  crime? 

What  is  right,  and  what  is  wrong? 
Is-our  freedom  but  a  song, 
Or  the  subject  of  a  rhyme?" 

ARGUMENT  AND  BRIEF  OF  THE  ATTORNEY  FOR 
THE  STATE. 

'  'When  THE  STATE,  that  is  to  say, 
WE,  takes  liberty  away — 
When  the  padlock  and  the  hasp 
Leave  one  helpless  in  our  grasp, 
It's  unlawful  then  that  he 
Even  dreams  of  liberty; 


92  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

Wicked  dreams  that  may  in  time 
Grow  and  ripen  into  crime  — 
Crime  of  dark  and  damning  shape; 
Then  if  he  perchance  escape, 
Evermore  remorse  will  roll 
O'er  his  shattered,  sin-sick  soul. 

"  Please-the-court-sir,  how  can  we 
Manage  people  who  get  free?" 

REPLY  OF  APPELLANT. 

"  Please-the-court-sir,  if  it's  sm, 
Where  does  turpitude  begin?" 

PER  CURIAM.     (OPINION  OF  THE  COURT.) 

«  We-don't-make-law;  we  are  bound 
To  interpret  it  as  found. 

"The  defendant  broke  away; 
When  arrested  he  should  stay. 

' '  This  appeal  can't  be  maintained, 
For  the  record  does  not  show 
Error  in  the  court  below, 
And  we  nothing  can  infer. 
Let  the  judgment  be  sustained; 
All  the  justices  concur." 

\Note  by  the  Reporter.] 

Of  the  sheriff,  rise  and  sing: 

"Glory  to  our  earthly  King!" 

(19Kas.25G.) 


THE  LEAP-YEAR  PARTY.  93 

THE   LEAP-YEAR  PARTY. 


Around  the  hall 
I  see  the  fairies  trooping, 

In  merry  promenade; 

Along  the  wall, 
Disconsolately  drooping, 

Masculine  wall-flowers  fade. 

Those  hands  which  once 
They  squoze  with  solemn  rapture, 

Days  of  old, 

Are  now  beyond 
All  present  power  to  capture 

Or  to  hold. 

And  now  the  caller, 
Cum,  volante  grando. 

Shrieks  down  the  hall; 

Anon  the  orchestra, 
With  harsh  sforzando, 

Insists  on  "balance  all." 

0,  temporal 
The  present  time  and  custom  — 

The  atmospheric  spirit  of  the  age, 

Have  made  these  women 
So  we  cannot  trust  ;em. 

Who  knows  what  ills  the  present 
may  presage? 


94  RHYMES  OF  IRON  QUILL. 

Of  that  event 
The  deepening  shadows  lengthen; 

While  far  away 

We  see  the  fast 
Combining  clouds,  that  strengthen 

Our  terror  of  that  day. 


MONO-LINE. 


I  straid,  I  strode  upon  the  ocean  strand, 

The  loud  waves  flaled  the  bolder-drifted  shore; 
I  stopt,  I  stoopt,  and  with  dejected  hand 
I  wrote  Ma-ri-er's  name  upon  the  sand  — 
Her  cherished  name  upon  the  sanded  flore. 

Ere  had  I  written,  came  a  bilious  wave  — 
Remorseless,  fiend-like,  ruthlessly  it  came  — 

Fane  would  I  brest  it  off,  fane  would  I  save; 

But  overwhelmingly,  into  a  grave 

Of  senseless  sand  it  slung  that  sacred  name. 

I  sat  me  down  upon  primeval  rock; 

Still  flaled  the  waves  the  bolder-drifted  shore 
It  seemed  as  if  me  troubled  heart  would  knock 
Itself  to  pieces,  since  the  sorrow  shock 

That  wrung  me  writing  from  that  sanded  flore. 


MONO-LINE.  95 

I'll  take  a  pine  from  Alpine  summit  stript  — 
A  pine,  me-said,  whose  size  will  shadow  all; 

And  down  in  Etna's  burning  lava  diped, 

I'll  make  a  torch,  titanic,  terror-tipped, 

While  horror  wraps  this  mundane  with  its  pall. 

On  heaven's  blue  dome,  o'er  nebula  and  star, 

Where  all  the  terror-stricken  world  can  see, 
Distinct  and  clear,  my  mono-line  I'll  char, 
In  words  of  fire  the  zones  may  read  from  far  — 
Ma-ri-er's  name  that  mono-line  shall  be. 

Rise,  ocean,  rise!  Rise  as  thou  hastest  rose! 

Houl,  ocean,  houl!    Thy  waves  may  rore,  may  moiie  — 
May  flale  the  bolders,  and  such  things  as  those; 
But  He  bet  you  some  14-dollar  clothes 

That  you  just  leave  that  mono-line  aloan. 


MILLIONS  of  bad  men  have  the  world  called  good, 

Millions  of  good  the  world  called  black  and  bad; 
Millions  of  cowards,  strangely  understood, 
Have  passed  for  heroes  when  they  never  should; 
Million  of  heroes  never  praise  have  had; 
And  cravens  will  the  name  of  honor  rob 
Until  the  pulse  of  time  shall  cease  to  throb. 


96  RHYMES  OF  IRON  QUILL. 


TO-DAY. 


Work  on,  work  on, 

Work  wears  the  world  away: 
Hope  when  to-morrow  comes, 

But  work  to-day. 

Work  on,  work  on, 

Work  brings  its  own  relief; 
He  who  most  idle  is 

Has  most  of  grief. 


EL  MOHAN. 


I  crossed  the  orbit  of  Aldebaran, 

Thence  sixteen  orbits  to  Taurus  Rho, 

As  goes  a  boat  through  a  chain  of  whirlpools 
Into  the  slumbrous  lake  below. 

I  passed  a  hundred  of  constellations; 

At  last  I  came  to  an  open  place, 
And  saw  in  the  distance  the  waves  of  ether 

Breaking  in  foam  on  the  cliffs  of  space. 

While  gazing  alone,  I  felt  a  question. 

But  nothing  either  I  saw  or  heard. 
A  soul  was  beside  me;  I  felt  a  presence, 

Seeing  no  soul,  nor  hearing  a  word. 


EL  MORAN.  97 

And  where  and  whence  are  you  from  and  going? 

I  thought  as  quickly;  who  can  you  be? 
Then  came  a  suspense,  as  of  hesitation  — 

This  was  the  answer  it  thought  at  me: 

I  lost  my  life  in  a  mine  explosion 

A  week  ago  in  the  planet  Mars; 
I  thought  I  would  look  up  a  new  location. 

Are  you  acquainted  among  the  stars?" 

I  answered:   No;   I  was  killed  by  lightning 

Yesterday  morning  in  Hindostan; 
I  visit  the  old  ancestral  homestead 

Back  in  the  nebula  El  Moran. 

We  both  recounted  the  past  and  present; 

We  watched  the  asteroids  weaving  lace, 
And  the  berylline  waves  of  viewless  ether 

Pounding  the  shoreless  cliffs  of  space. 


TYPE. 


All  night  the  sky  was  draped  in  darkness  thick; 
Out  from  the  clouds  imprisoned  lightnings  swept. 

Into  the  printer's  stick, 

With  energetic  click, 
The  ranks  of  type  into  battalions  crept, 
Which  formed  brigades  while  dreaming  labor  slept; 
And  ere  dawn's  crimson  pennons  were  unfurled, 
The  night-formed  columns  charged  the  waking  world. 


98  RHYMES  OF  JJiONQUILL. 


THE  PRAIRIE  STORM. 


With  the  daylight  came  the  storm; 

And  the  clouds,  like  ragged  veils, 
Trailed  the  prairie  until  noontide, 

Borne  by  vacillating  gales; 
And  the  red  elms  by  the  streamlets 
Dripped  upon  the  wild  plum  thickets, 
And  the  thickets  on  the  crickets 
And  the  quails. 

Wet  and  sodden 
Lay  the  prairie  grass  untrodden. 

Through  the  dismal  afternoon 

Held  the  banks  of  cloud  aloof, 
Like  as  smoke  in  frontier  cabin 
Hugs  the  rafters  in  the  roof. 
Broke  the  clouds  and  ceased  the  dripping. 
And  the  red  elms  by  the  streamlets 
Caught  the  fading  evening  gleamlets 
That  in  proof, 

Grave  the  token 
That  the  summer  storm  was  broken. 

With  a  nimbus  like  a  saint 

Rose  the  white  moon  in  the  east; 

And  the  grass  all  rose  together 
As  the  guests  do  at  a  feast; 


CHILDHOOD.  99 


And  the  prairie  lark  kept  singing 
All  the  night,  and  the  stirring 
And  the  whizzing  and  the  whirring 
Still  increased; 

Till  all  sorrow 
Yielded  to  the  brilliant  morrow. 


CHILDHOOD. 


It  passed  in  beauty, 

Like  the  waves  that  reach 
Their  jeweled  fingers 

Up  the  sanded  beach. 

It  passed  in  beauty, 

Like  the  flowers  that  spring 
Behind  the  footsteps 

Of  the  winter  king. 

It  passed  in  beauty. 

Like  the  clouds  on  high, 

That  drape  the  ceilings 
Of  the  summer  sky. 


100  RHYMES  OF  IRON  QUILL. 


INGALL8  VS.  VOORHEES. 

Cyclone  dense, 

Lurid  air, 

Wabash  hair, 
Hide  on  fence. 


WINTER. 


The  sleet 

Will  beat, 

And  the  snpw 

Will  blow, 

And  the  rain 

Will  drain 

From  the  plain 

So  sadly; 

And  the  night  come  down 

So  bleak  and  brown. 

While  the  blast 

Shrieks  past 

So  fast 

And  madly. 


WAR-FAEE.  101 


THE  REASON. 


Says  John  last  night: 

"William,  by-grab,  I'm  beat 
To  know  why  stolen  kisses 

Taste  so  sweet." 

Says  William:    "Sho! 

That's  easily  explained  — 
It's  'cause  they're  syrnp- 

titiously  obtained." 

O  cruel  thought! 

O  words  of  cruel  might! 
The  coroner 

He  sat  on  John  that  night. 


WAR-FARE. 


Oh,  what  a  horrid  thing  this  warfare  is!" 
Then  Jim  replied,   "You're  very  much  mistaken; 

I    joined    the    home-guards   when    Price   threatened 

Scott, 
And  then  our  fare  was  hard-bread,  coffee,  bacon." 

;  The  fare  of  war,  I  am  not  talking  of  !  " 
Responded  William,  with  an  angry  shout; 

:Oh,  yes,  I  see,"  says  Jim;  "well,  of  the  war, 
The  fare  's  all  I  know  anything  about. " 


102  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 


THE  LOVIST. 

A    TRUE     STORY. 

Look  here,  you  gentle  reader, 

A  story  I  must  tell, 
About  an  individual 

Who  loved  a  maiden  well. 

[He  admired  and  adored  her  —  doted  and  gloated 
and  floated;  one  of  his  favorite  observations  was,  that 
her  dear  image  was  frescoed  on  the  skylight  of  his  soul.  ] 

He  wrote  one  day  a  letter, 

And  sealed  it  with  a  seal, 
To  tell  the  girl  how  feelingly 

Towards  her  he  did  feel. 

[  This  letter  partook  of  the  character  of  a  rhythmical 
communication;  it  might  have  been  called  an  ode,  or 
an  apostrophe,  or  a  sonnet,  or  a  piece  of  versified 
vacuity,  or  iambic  inanity  —  but  it  wasn't  poetry.] 

The  young  man  said:    "It  idle  is 

For  me  to  ever  start 
To  paint  in  one  short  idyl 

The  idol  of  my  heart. " 

[  What  the  adolescent  young  maniac  wanted  to  paint 
her  for  nobody  will  ever  know.  He  called  her  his  ideal, 
idol,  doll,  his  fairy,  seraph,  duck,  nymph,  grace,  and 
he  showed  other  surface  indications  of  having  the  old 
complaint  in  its  most  frightful  form.] 


THE  LOVI8T.  103 

A  carpenter  of  teeth  was  he, 

A  den-tist,  and  I'm  told 
That  in  his  den  he  often  said 

That  teeth  were  his  "best  hold.  " 

[He  was  "bad"  on  eye-teeth,  yanked  out  cuspids 
and  bicuspids,  snatched  out  grinders,  exterminated 
molars  and  abolished  incisors  without  pain  or  delay. 
His  motto  was,  "pro  bono  publico" — for  the  public's 
bones.  ] 

But  when  the  miss  the  miss-ive  read, 

The  maiden  sentimental, 
She  said,  said  she,   "If  he  gets  me, 
It  will  be  acci-dental. " 

[She  told  this,  in  confidence,  to  a  young  lady  friend, 
who  put  on  her  hood  and  rushed  right  off  and  told  the 
young  man,  so  as  to  make  him  feel  happy.  He  asked 
the  young  lady  to  intercede  for  him.  She  did  so,  tu 
the  "charmer"  simply  responded  :] 

' '  Who  knows,  before  the  orange  blos 
soms  wither  in  my  wreath, 
What  irony  and  iron  he 

May  throw  into  my  teeth?" 

[The  "mutual"  friend  saw  that  the  embassy  was  a 
failure,  and  so  she .  waited  all  the  forenoon  until  her 
mother  went  out  to  saw  some  wood  to  get  dinner  with; 
then  she  skipped  down  to  see  the  doctor  and  make  him 
feel  pleasant.  She  told  him  all,  with  usual  embellish 
ments —  she  not  only  gave  him  the  "text,"  but  also 
an  elaborate  appendix,  with  notes,  index  and  glossary.] 


104  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

And  when  the  young  man  heard  of  it, 

He  then  began  to  cry; 
He  stopped  a-drawing  of  a  tooth, 

And  went  and  drew  a  sigh. 

["Why,"  said  he,  "this  sarcasm,  this  scornful  utter 
ance,  this  taunt,  this  sneer,  this  gibe?  I  have,"  said 
he  "nary — not — no — nothing  to  live  for."] 

He  done  took  sick;  he  tried  and  tried 

To  neutralize,  in  vain, 
The  pain  he  felt,  by  wrapping  up 

Within  a  counter-pane. 

[But  it  wouldn't  work;  he  tried  to  die  by  an  effort 
of  mind,  but  his  mind  was  too  weak  —  his  constitution 
was  stronger  than  his  will.  This  was  before  the  tonic 
action  of  phosphorus  on  the  brain  was  discovered.  He 
tried  whisky,  but  it  never  affected  him  —  it  never  found 
his  brain;  it  went  skirmishing  through  his  system  and 
wore  itself  out  trying  to  find  some  ganglionic  nodule  to 
work  on.  He  consequently  recovered  next  day  suffi 
ciently  to  go  down  town.] 

And  then  he  bought  a  Bowie  knife 

With  which  to  end  his  woes; 
Then  went  and  plunged  it  in  his  chest, 

[Which  was  half  full  of  clothes;] 

Then  went  and  bought  a  railroad  pass, 

And  took  the  evening  train 
For  climes  where  golden  fortunes  are 

"Extracted  without  pain." 


THE  CRUSADES.  1()5 

THE  CRUSADES. 


The  one  I  love  so  much  sits  by  my  side  — 

Sits  by  my  side  and  listens  as  I  read. 
Little  care  we  how  o'er  the  prairies  wide 
The  wintry,  zero-loving  tempests  glide, 
As  one  by  one  the  fire-lit  hours  recede. 
In  one  of  mine  I  hold  her  little  hands 
And  read  to  her  of  wars  in  distant  lands. 

I  read  to  her  of  times  long  passed  away, 

That  shine  like  jewels  in  the  wild  Crusades; 
That  light  up  cities  crumbling  in  decay, 
That  out  of  darkness  bring  the  glare  of  day, 
Which  glare  again  to  greater  darkness  fades. 
I  read  to  her  of  princes  and  of  seers, 
Of  cruelties,  of  sufferings,  of  tears. 

I  read  to  her  of  hermits  and  of  kings, 

Of  Conrad,  Tancred,  Baldwin  and  Behmond; 
I  read  to  her  of  bravery  that  springs 
Of  wild  fanaticism,  whose  strong  wings 

Take,  in  their  sweep,  this  world  and  the  beyond 
And,  as  I  read,  the  gusty  tempests  rage, 
As  if  in  sympathy  with  every  page. 

8 


106  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 


AN   AGREED    STATEMENT   OF  FACTS 

As  TO  THE  ADMISSION  OF  MR.  Hie  JONES  TO 
THE  PAINT  CREEK  BAR,  KANSAS. 

Jones  was  young  and  unassuming,  but  the  shrewd  ob 
server  saw, 

Something  that  appeared  abnormal  in  the  structure  of 
his  jaw. 

When  the  court  convened,  old  Snipe-1  em.  with  a  voice 
like  a  guitar, 

Offered  Jones's  application  for  admission  to  the  bar. 

Then  the  court  looked  wise  and  owly,  and  in  slow,  judi 
cial  tones 

Ordered  Snipe-'em,  Brown  and  Spot-'em  first  to  analyze 
young  Jones, 

Saying,  "Gentlemen,  be  thorough;  at  the  opening  of 
the  court, 

We  will  skip  the  motion  docket  and  consider  your 
report." 

Sheriff  Grabb  then  showed  the  party  to  the  "ante"- 
room  —  up-stairs, 

Where  a  table  stacked  with  gun-wads  had  been  check 
mated  with  chairs. 

It  was  four  o'clock  precisely;  Spot-'em  gently  turned 
the  key, 

Saying,  "  Frauds,  I'll  act  as  banker — waltz  your  ducats 
up  to  me." 


HIC  JONES.  107 

The  analysis  proceeded  until  twelve  or  thereabout, 
When  the  stock  of  ardent  spirits  unexpectedly  gave  out. 
Spot-'em  wrote  a  note  to  Julius,  saying,  "Julius,  if  you 

please, 
Send  us  up  a  red-hot  lunch  for  four;   we're  raking  down 

for  threes." 
And   an  order   for  frumenti  and  cigars    was   sent  by 

Brown, 
Drawn  on  Thomas,  of  the  "Wilder,"  chief  nose-artist  of 

the  town. 

The  committee  stopped  for  supper,  readjusted  all  their 
loans, 

And  proceeded  with  fresh  vigor  in  their  researches  for 
Jones. 

Just  about  this  time,  ' ;  the  District  Clerk  of  the  afore 
said  Court," 

By  some  unknown  coincidence,  dropped  in  to  see  the 
sport. 

Having  hefted  the  frumenti,  he  did  cheerfully  reply 

To  their  bland  interrogations  in  regard  to  "chicken- 
pie." 

Unpaid  fees  in  Spot-'em's  cow  case  then  were  discounted 
by  Brown, 

Which  the  clerk  took  out  in  gun-wads,  most  of  which 
young  Jones  raked  down. 

At  the  hour  of  three   precisely,  after  four   successful 

raids, 
Spot-'em  raked  down  Snipe-'em's  shirt  studs  on  a  hand 

composed  of  spades; 


108  RHYMES  OF  IRON  QUILL. 

Snipe-'em  took  a  dose  of  tonic,  and  reluctantly  resigned, 
While  the  clerk,  with  sad  bravado,  went  a  collar-button 

blind. 
Hour  by  hour  the  game  continued;   Jones  came  in  on 

every  draw, 
But  no  syllable  proceeded  from  that  strange,  abnormal 

jaw. 

On  a  bench  snoozed  Snipe-'em,  sadly,  in  the  corner  of 
the  room, 

While  the  smoked-up  coal-oil  chimney  cast  a  deep, 
sepulchral  gloom; 

And  at  times  his  troubled  slumbering  evoked  uncon 
scious  moans, 

As  if  saying,   "It  is  difficult  —  this  analyzing  Jones." 

At  last  the  time  at  which  the  court  should  reassemble 

came; 

It  did  not  seem  to  influence  the  progress  of  the  game; 
They  yet  had  not  made  up  their  minds  concerning  their 

report, 
And  here  we  leave  them  briefly  while  we  look  in  on  the 

court. 

A  pro  tern,  judge  was  on  the  bench;  two  members  of 

the  bar 
Assaulted  twelve  one-gallows  men  with  words  of  legal 

war. 


NIC  JONES.  109 

The  way  was  this:   It  seems  that  Smith,  in  opening  his 

case, 

Had  told  the  jury  carelessly,  as  of  some  time  or  place, 
That  he  had  seen  a  real  dead  mule;   his  language  was. 

not  pat  — 

Of  course  nobody  ever  saw  a  mule  as  dead  as  that. 
But  still  Smith  was  excusable- — the  heat  of  a  debate 
May  lead  a  man  unconsciously  to  slightly  overstate. 
Zeal  for  a  client's  lawsuit  —  the  more  if  it  be  weak  — 
May  make  a  lawyer's  language  go  impalpably  oblique. 
But  still,  upon  the  other  hand,  an  orator,  forsooth, 
Should  try  and  keep  his  statements  within  gunshot  of 

the  truth; 

And  Smith  was  very  careless  in  observance  of  the  rule 
To  make  so  rash  a  statement  in  regard  to  any  mule. 
Its  absurdness  never  struck  him,  for  he  never  stopped 

to  think; 
All  at  once  he  dropped  upon  it  when  he  saw  a  juror 

wink. 

Now  if  Smith  had  been  sagacious,  he  immediately  then 
Would  have  modified  that  statement  to  those  twelve^ 

one-gallows  men- 
Would  have  intimated  mildly  that  it  might  have  been  a 

horse, 
But  he  didn't;  conscience  smote  him,  and  he  sank  down 

with  remorse  — 
Folded  up  as  folds  a  primrose  when  the  gates  of  day  are 

shut; 
Folded  up  as  folds  a  jack-knife  when  a  chaw  of  plug  is 

cut. 


HO  RHYMES  OF  IRONQ.UILL. 

The  greater  our  experience  the  surer  do  we  find 
Eemarks  should  be  adaptable  unto  the  hearer's  mind. 
Twelve  preachers  might  have   took   it   in,    but   Smith 

could  never  fool 
Twelve  citizens  of  Turkey  Creek  with  reference  to  the 

mule. 

Then  up  rose  lawyer  Soak-'em,  and  his  lips  were  close 

compressed, 
His  left  hand  gripped  his  coat  tail,  his  right  was  on  his 

breast; 
He  gazed  on  the  "palladium;  "  his  look  was  stern  and 

high- 
In  thunder  tones  he  emphasized  Smith's  statement  as 

a  lie; 

And  then,  in  terms  that  Soak-'em  took  occasion  to  adorn, 
He  branded  him  —  denounced    him  —  held  him    up    to 

public  scorn, 

Pointed  his  finger  at  him,  and,  in  allegoric  sense, 
He  peeled  Smith's  epidermis  off  and    hung  it  011  the 

fence. 

Then  in  a  few  pathetic  words  he  made  allusion  to 
The  immortality  of  mules,  which  every  juror  knew. 
The  jury  cheered  the   diction  that  in  such    profusion 

came, 
And   Smith  —  he   writhed   in   agony  of   hopeless  grief 

and  shame. 

The  jury  then  were  eulogized  appropriately  neat  — 
Of  course  they  found  for  Soak-'em  without  rising  from 

their  seat. 


RIG  JONES.  HI 

But  how  they  reached  the  merits  of  the  case  is  not  so 

clear, 

For  the  action  they  were  trying  was  replevin  for  a  steer. 
And  then  the  restless,  coatless,  but  appreciative  crowd 
Gave  Smith  "the  great,  big  horse-laugh,"  and  he  sat 

there  cold  and  cowed. 

Hereupon  came  Brown  and  Spot-' em,  Jones  and  Snipe- 

'em  in  the  rear, 
Arm  in  arm,  each  with  his  necktie  dangling  down  below 

his  ear; 
Each    one    made    a    short,    spasmodic    pull    upon    his 

rumpled  vest, 
And,  fronting  up  before  the  judge,  the  whole  platoon 

right-dressed. 

"Hie —  your  honor,"  said  old  Snipe-'em,  with  a  voice 
diffuse,  yet  sweet, 

"Hie — we've  ma'  der  'zamination  mor'  n'er  usual  com 
plete; 

We've  jus  gone  —  hie  —  thro'  er  can'idate;  's  proficiency 
is  fair." 

"Hie  —  you  bet,"  said  Brown,  who  eyed  the  court  with 
a  mild,  fishy  glare. 

"  Went  ri' through —  hie  —  Jones, "said  Snipe-'em;  "he 

z'all  ri' — hie  —  on  'er  law; 
He  can  draw  'er  chattel  mortgage  —  or  three  aces  ever' 

draw; 


112  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

'Z  got  all  Spot-'em's  tex-books  and  reports;  mine  too  — 

hie  —  haint  he,  Brown? 
Young — hie  —  Jones   has   got  'er   principal  law  libr'y 

now  in  town. 

"'Z  got  'er  bully  mor'l  character  —  Jones  squarer  'an  a 
string; 

Raised  old  Spot-'em  seventeen  dollars,  an'  he  didn't 
have  a  thing; 

'Z  by  all  means  admit — hie  —  Jones  'er  bar;  !ose  book 
mus'  stay  in  town; 

Hie  —  old  Spot's  too  full  for  utterance."  "Zas  so,"  re 
sponded  Brown. 

"Clerk,  swear  Hie  Jones,"  old  pro  tern,  said,    in  lan 
guage  gruff  and  quick. 
(The  court  supposed  that  Jones's  antecedent  name  was 

"Hie.") 
Then  the  clerk  said,  somewhat  vaguely,  ' '  You  do  swear 

—  hie  —  from  'is  date, 

You  will  solem'ny  support  'er  conistution  of  'er  State; 
Be  'er  lawyer  of  'er  bar  from  this  date  —  hie  —  forthly 

hence. 
[Hold  up  'er  han']  — all  ri' — hie  —  bob  —  so  help  you 

—  fifty  cents." 
Then  the  judge  gave  Jones  a  chromo;  Jones  received  it 

with  delight, 
And  the  whole  platoon  meandered,  with  a  right  flank  — 

hie  —  file  right. 


HIG  JONES. 


So  delighted  was  a  juror  that  the  shingle  nail  was  bust 
That  did  duty  as  a  button  where  the  juror's  jeans  were 

trussed; 
But  the  cardiac  formation  of  young  Smith  was  turned 

to  stone  — 
Ah!  how  lurid  Jones's  future,  and  how  dismal  was  his 

own. 


Years  have  passed,  and  Smith  and  Spot-'em  have  ex 
uded  from  the  State; 

Brown  and  Soak-' em  work  for  Findlay,  in  the  coal  bank, 
lifting  slate; 

Snipe-'em  got  in  debt  to  every  one,  but  Snipe-'em  never 
frets  — 

They  made  him  go  to  Congress  so  that  he  could  pay  his 
debts. 

Jones  is  everywhere  considered  as  a  bright,  peculiar  star; 
He's  got  one  case  they  say  will  make  his  fortune  at  the 

bar: 

Ejectment  for  a  dam-site  on  the  shores  of  Yellow 
Paint  — 

On  that  boulder-drifted  shore, 
Where  the  angry  billows  roar, 

And  the  women  loudly  snore,  whether  they're  asleep  or 
ain't. 

He  wrote  and  now  delivers  an  exceedingly  fine  lecture 
On    "Proceedings    in   Tribunals   of   Penultimate   Con 
jecture," 


114  RHYMES  OF  IRON  QUILL, 

And  this  very  able  thesis,  though  epitomised  and  short, 
Contains  the  law  for  all  the  courts  of  dernier  last  re 
sort. 

Let  us  hope  that  Jones's  future,  so  auspiciously  begun, 
May,  like  Snipe-'em's  outlawed  due  bills,  have  sufficient 
time  to  run. 


THE  ORGAN  GRINDER. 


I'm  ignorant  of  music,  but  still,  in  spite  of  that, 
I  always  drop  a  quarter  in  an  organ  grinder's  hat. 

I  welcome  on  the  pavement  that  old,  familiar  noise, 
Around  which  there  are  gathered  all  the  little  girls  and 

boys, 
While  solemn,  sad  and  hungry  stands,  a-turning  at  the 

crank, 
A  nobleman  of  Europe  from  attenuated  rank. 

The  nobleman  chews  plug,  and  gives,  with  organistic 

glee, 
A  ballad  of  old  Ireland,  the  jewel  of  the  sea— 

II  The  most  distracted  country  that  we  have  ever  seen; 
They're  hangin'  men  and  women  there,  for  wearin'  of 

the  green,— 

For  wearin'  of  the  green,  for  wearin'  of  the  green; 
They're  hangin'  men  and  women  there,  for  wearin'  of 

the  green." 


THE  ORGAN  GRINDER.  115 

And  then  I  think  of  those  who  went  away  to  war  with 

me 

Who  claimed  a  home  in  Ireland,  the  jewel  of  the  sea; 
My  comrades  and  my  messmates,  none  braver  or  more 

true; 
Holding  aloft  the  stars  and  stripes,  a-wearing  of  the 

blue. 

Alas!  far  down  in  Dixie  their  many  graves  are  seen; 
Beneath  the  grassy  hillocks  they  are  wearing  of  the 

green. 

Immortal  little  island!     No  other  land  or  clime 
Has  placed  more  deathless  heroes  in  the  Pantheon  of 
time. 

Anon  the  noble  Roman  brings  his  music  to  a  halt; 
There  seems  an  indication  of  a  neighboring  revolt. 
He  takes  a  change  of  venue,  of  about  a  dozen  feet, 
And  enfilades  the  windows  that  are  fronting  on  the 

street. 
Around  him  whirl  the  girls  and   boys,  with  animated 

glee. 
Once  more  he  grinds;   I  recognize  "  Der  Deutscher  Com- 

panie. ' ' 

''Der  Deutscher  companie  ish  der  beshtest  companie 
Whatever  coomed  across  from  der  old  Charmanee; 
Der  Deutscher  companie,  der  Deutscher  companie  "- 
The  music  bears  me  backward  to  the  year  of  '63. 


116  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

I  saw  a  German  regiment  step  out  from  our  brigade; 
It  marched  across  a  meadow  where  a  hundred  cannon 

played; 

Its  bugles  hurled  defiance;   it  skirmished  up  a  slope 
Amid  a  fire  that  gave  no  man  a  promise  of  a  hope. 

They  fell  like  wheat;   they  came  not  back;   at  night  na 

bugles  played  — 
There  was  no  German  regiment  attached  to  our  brigade. 

The  world  has  seen  thy  valor,  O  land  of  song  and  vine! 

Since  Hermann  plucked  the  eagles  from  the  ramparts 
of  the  Rhine. 

Down  valor's  lustrous  colonnade  is  seen  the  marble- 
throng— 

Thy  warriors  and  thy  scholars,  O  land  of  vine  and  song. 

About  this  time  the  nobleman  is  asked  to  take  a  rest; 
The  fires  of  indignation  light  his  Romulistic  breast. 
He  stops  the  crank;   he  gazes  up,  defiantly,  yet  mute, 
While  from  the  second  story  there  proceeds  an  ancient 

boot. 
With  steady  gaze  he  watches   it,    and,    like  a  man  of 

nerve, 
He  accurately  calculates  its  hyperbolic  curve. 

He  dodges  it;  he  marches  on;  but  soon  this  man  of 
Rome 

Begins  again  to  turn  the  crank  —  ' '  Johnny  comes  march 
ing  home." 

"When  Johnny  comes  marching  home  again,  hurrah f 
hurrah; 


THE  ORGAN  GRINDER.  117 

When  Johnny    comes   marching  home   again,   hurrah, 
hurrah  — 

The  women  will  sing,  the  men  will  shout, 
The  boys  and  girls  will  all  turn  out; 

We'll  all  be  gay  when  Johnny  comes  marching  home." 

And  then  I  think  of  those  again  who  went  with  me  to 

war  — 
They  knew  where  they  were  going,  and  what  they  went 

there  for. 
They   felt   that  there  was   little  left  of  present  or  of 

past, 

Of  hope,  of  home,  of  future,  if  the  die  was  wrongly  cast. 
Fires   smouldered  at  the  firesides;  when   the  Nation 

called:    "To  arms!" 

My  comrades  left  the  forests,  the  foundries,  the  farms, 
They  fought  the  Nation's  battles,  on  the  land  and  on 

the  sea  — 

Alas !  alas !  no  millionaire  went  off  to  war  with  me. 
The  merit  of  the  country  marched,  and  filled  the  Union 

ranks  — 

The  money  of  the  country  marched,  and  filled  the  En 
glish  banks. 

At  last  the  war  was  over,  and  Johnny  ceased  to  roam  — 
He  came  with  bugles  playing;  the  specie  sneaked  back 

home. 

O,  outcast  organ  grinder,  thy  simple  ballads  start 
The  frenzy  of  the  cyclone  through  the  highlands  of  my 
heart. 


118  RHYMES  OF  IRON  QUILL. 

Some  sneer  thy  ragged  music,  because  to  them  there 
comes 

No  bawling  of  the  bugles,  no  raving  of  the  drums. 

They  hear  no  "boots  and  saddles  "  sounding  in  the  mid 
night  chill; 

They  hear  no  angry  cannon  thunder  up  the  rocky  hill; 

They  hear  no  canteens  rattle;  they  see  no  muskets  shine, 

As  ranks  sweep  by  in  double  quick  to  brace  the  skir 
mish  line. 

Go  play  thy  simple  music,  O  friendless  sport  of  fate! 
The  ballads  of  the  people  are  the  bulwarks  of  the  state. 
The  bugles  that  hang  dreaming  now,  like  bats  upon  the 

wall, 

Remember  well  those  choruses  that  rose  above  the  call; 
And  in  unconscious  musings,  those  battered  bugles  see 
The  glories  of  the  future  in  the  centuries  to  be. 


THE  SHORT-HAIRED  POET. 

[Delivered  to  an  editorial  convention.] 


Poems  and  poets  and  poetic  lays 
Have  almost  filled  their  missions  and  their  days; 
The  times  have  passed  when  minstrels'  lyric  strings 
Depicted  battles  and  applauded  kings. 

The  time  is  past  of  sovereigns  and  seers; 
The  time  is  past  of  paladins  and  peers; 
Once  more  again  is  coming  on  the  stage 
The  long  lost  era  of  an  iron  age. 


THE  SHORT-HAIRED  POET.  H9 

The  days  of  long-haired  poets  now  are  o'er; 
The  short-haired  poet  seems  to  have  the  floor; 
And  now  the  world  cannot  attend  to  rhymes 
That  do  not  catch  the  spirit  of  the  times. 

Who  cares  who  stole  the  coupons  of  old  Croesus? 
Who  cares  who  stole  the  Thracian  steeds  of  Rhesus? 
Who  cares  how  Menelaus  lost  his  wife? 
Who  cares  how  Mr.  Paris  lost  his  life? 

What  matters  it  how  Alba  Longa  grew, 
Flourished,  and  plundered  every  one  it  knew? 
To  long-haired  poets  themes  like  these  belong  — 
The  short-haired  poet  sings  another  song. 

The  short-haired  poet  has  no  muse  nor  chief; 
He  sings  of  corn;   he  eulogizes  beef; 
And  in  the  springtime  his  aesthetic  soul 
Bursts  forth  in  vernal  eulogies  on  coal. 

He  thinks  the  sunflower  nothing  but  a  weed, 
And  thinks  far  less  of  fancy  than  of  feed. 
The  power  of  kings,  in  his  poetic  dream, 
Can  cut  no  figure  with  the  power  of  steam. 

These  long-haired  themes  abandoned  in  a  lump, 
He  sings  of  Business  —  "business  from  the  jump;" 
And  in  this  verse  we  hope  that  you  will  find 
A  modest  poem  of  the  brief-haired  kind. 


120  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

Our  theme  is  Business,  and  we  gladly  sing 
That  which  the  world  now  honors  as  its  king; 
Although  we  hear  of  crowns  and  titled  gold. 
Flour  and  pig  iron  now  the  scepter  hold. 

The  time  is  precious,  and  the  world's  mad  rush 
Stops  not  for  moonshine,  sentiment  nor  gush. 
Untimely  is  the  minstrel  who  essays 
The  pomp  or  pride  of  royalty  to  praise. 

For,  at  the  present,  man's  progressive  scope 
Is  due  far  less  to  royalty  than  soap; 
Is  due  far  more  to  workshops  and  to  farms  — 
Briarean  Business  with  its  hundred  arms. 

I'll  tell  a  story  of  those  games  of  old 
Which  all  the  nations  gathered  to  behold; 
Where  arms  and  harpers  struggled,  and  obtained 
The  laurel  prizes  which  the  victors  gained; 

And  where  the  vast  assemblage  shouted  loud 
To  praise  a  victor  and  to  do  him  proud. 
And  I  will  tell  you  how  it  happened  here 
That  two  contesting  harpers  did  appear. 

One  in  his  hand  a  golden  harp  he  bore, 

A  golden  fillet  on  his  forehead  wore; 

And  from  his  shoulder,  with  embroidered  fold, 

Did  hang  a  mantle  of  brocaded  gold. 


THE  SHORT-HAIRED  POET.  121 

The  other  harper  to  the  contest  brings 
An  iron  harp,  with  ripe,  sonorous  strings; 
His  hair  was  brief,  and  there  at  times  did  fly 
That  bilious  glare  of  genius  from  his  eye. 

The  vast  assemblage  standing  round  about 
Received  the  harpers  with  a  deafening  shout, 
And  when  at  last  the  tumult  died  away 
The  judges  motioned  for  the  harps  to  play. 

Gilded  Chloranthus  now  begins  his  song, 
Which  jars  in  harsh,  chaotic  notes  along; 
He  sings  of  kings,  and  gold.      Alas!  it  finds 
But  little  favor  in  the  judges'  minds. 

The  audience  listen,  and  are  not  exempt 

From  feelings  both  of  anger  and  contempt. 

He  sings  how  gold,  not  brains,  controls  the  earth; 

How  gold  makes  rank,  and  then  how  rank  makes  worth; 

That  kings  are  heaven  appointed,  and  maintains 
That  gold  can  buy  all  bravery,  and  all  brains. 
Chloranthus  ceased,  and  through  the  crowd  there  vrent 
An  uninistaken  symptom  of  dissent. 

And  now,  with  notes  sonorous,  clear  and  sharp. 
Begins  Timesis  of  the  iron  harp. 
He  sings  how  iron  makes  a  nation  proud; 
He  sings  how  gold  to  iron  always  bowed; 


122  RHYMES  OF  IRON  QUILL. 

Sings  of  unwalled,  yet  iron-guarded  towns; 
He  sings  of  iron  keels,  and  iron  crowns; 
How  Klion's  golden  helmet  failed  to  save 
Beneath  the  blow  of  Thraxis1  iron  glaive. 

He  sang  how  Midas  begged  so  long  and  much 
The  gift  Jove  gave  him  of  the  golden  touch, 
And  how  at  last  king  Midas  tried  to  shift 
The  consequences  of  the  fatal  gift. 

And  then  he  sang  how  princely  G-laucus  sold 
His  dingy  arms  for  arms  of  solid  gold; 
How,  on  the  field,  the  wounded  Glaucus  lay, 
While  victors  bore  the  arms  and  sash  av:ay; 

How,  in  the  fight,  his  ardent  course  was  checked, 

His  golden  shield  unable  to  protect. 

Thus  from  the  iron  wire  the  music  swept; 

Thus  through  the  song  the  classic  phantoms  stepped 

And  ceasing  said:    "Of  kingly  power  and  gold 
Too  much  already  are  the  people  told. " 
And  when  the  wire  ceased  trembling,  long  and  loud 
Came  up  the  approbation  of  the  crowd. 

Gilded  Chloranthus  asks  another  trial, 
And  meeting  from  the  judges  no  denial, 
He  starts  again,  but  vainly  he  aspires 
To  tempt  the  music  from  the  gilded  wires. 


THE  SHORT-HAIRED  POET.  123 

Than  kings  and  gold  no  other  song  he  sings; 
No  other  notes  will  leave  the  golden  strings; 
And  when  he  starts  another  lyric  bold, 
It  breaks  and  runs  into   "the  power  of  gold." 

Then  from  the  crowd  a  fitful  murmur  rose 
That  brought  his  hapless  efforts  to  a  close; 
And  when  at  last  the  crowd  was  silent,  then 
The  iron  harp  and  harper  start  again. 

He  sings  of  hardships,  and  he  sings  of  arts  — 
Twin  themes  responsive  in  all  human  hearts; 
He  sings  of  mariners,  he  sings  of  mines; 
He  sings  of  viaducts,  he  sings  of  vines; 

He  sings  how  sturdy  workmen  tug  upon 

The  marble  ledges  of  Pentelicon. 

He  sings  of  piers  built  out  in  ocean  foams; 

Of  "  woven-winged,  sea-wandering  sailor-homes;  "* 

Of  daring  pilots,  guiding  at  the  helm 
Commercial  tri-remes  to  some  distant  realm. 
He  sings  of  bridges,  and  he  sings  of  roads; 
Of  Spartan  manners  and  of  iron  codes; 

He  sings  of  Marathon  and  of  Platea, 

And  how  republics  fight  for  an  idea. 

He  sings  the  Future,  and  the  First  G-reat  Cause; 

The  birth  of  morals,  and  the  growth  of  laws; 


124:  RHYMES  OF  IRON  QUILL. 

How  nations  owe  far  less  to  soldiers'  drill 
Than  to  the  forge,  and  iron  workers'  skill; 
How  private  rights  will  slow  and  surely  fail. 
As  labor  lowers  in  the  social  scale ; 

How  Freedom  grows  ;   how  tyrannies  decay, 
As  arts  evolve,  and  labor  gets  its  pay. 
And  as  along  Timesis  poured  his  song, 
A  frightful  frenzy  seized  upon  the  throng; 

They  strip  the  golden  harper  of  his  crown 
And  in  the  race  course  it  is  trampled  down; 
The  golden  mantle  from  his  shoulders  wrung, 
And  in  the  sea  harper  and  harp  are  flung. 

And  then  Timesis  sang  a  song  of  old: 
"Thus  perish  they  who  sing  of  kings  and  gold. 
Now  do  not  burlesque  what  Timesis  said, 
And,  Twain-like,  ask  me  if  the  man  is  dead. 

Your  blank  expressions,  like  a  billiard  cue, 
Carom  me  back  to  what  I  had  in  view  — 
Which  was,  to  soar  in  rash,  poetic  notes; 
To  sing  of  pigs,  macadam,  poultry,  oats. 

I  would  not  mix  at  this  auspicious  time 
Low,  drawling  verses  on  hydraulic  lime; 
But  in  Icarian  flight  would  seek  the  skies 
On  carpets,  coal  oil,  cotton,  railroad  ties. 


THE  SHORT-HAIRED  POET.  125 

Fain  would  I  sing  of  prints,  of  coffee  A; 
Of  harness,  harrows;  hoop  poles,  hymn  books,  hay. 
Fain  would  I  sing  of  rope  whose  twisted  coil 
Holds  new  washed  shirts  and  horse  thieves  from  the 
soil; 

Of  Kansas  fire  brick  that  can  stand  "cremation;  " 
Of  blacksmiths'  bellows  that  can  stand  "inflation;  " 
Of  arts  and  artizans  both  great  and  small  — 
But  we  must  cease;   our  verse  won't  hold  them  all. 

A  long-haired  bard  a  story  once  did  spin; 
I'll  clip  its  hair,  and  gently  lead  it  in. 
It  says  that  in  Laomedon's  employ 
Old  Neptune  built  the  battlements  of  Troy; 

And  when  he  asked  the  monarch  for  his  pay, 
The  monarch  stood  him  back  and  answered,   "Nay." 
Then  Neptune  struck  his  trident  on  the  strand, 
And  steel-clad  squadrons  sprang  up  from  the  sand; 

He  beat  his  trident  on  the  ocean's  banks  — 
Up  sprang  battalions  with  their  iron  ranks. 
The  king  was  filled  with  terror  and  dismay; 
He  issued  bonds  and  Neptune  got  his  pay. 

O  king-crowned  Business!  from  thy  height  sublime 
Thou  overlookest  every  land  and  clime. 
Alike  thou  seest  where  thy  southern  sails 
Plow  up  the  billows  and  repulse  the  gales; 


126  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

As  where  the  northern  steamers  from  their  track 
Beat  both  the  wild  winds  and  the  wild  waves  back. 
No  longer  dost  thou  stretch  thy  feeble  hands 
O'er  inland  seas,  and  river-bounded  lands; 

No  longer  on  the  ocean  to  and  fro, 
Borne  by  the  breezes,  do  thy  galleys  go 
That  time  is  over,  and  thou  now  dost  bring 
The  world  to  do  thee  homage  as  its  king. 

More  potently  than  Neptune  art  thou  crowned: 
Beat  down  thy  iron  trident  on  the  ground,  * 
And  ere  the  echo  of  the  blow  is  done 
The  brick-built  cities  sparkle  in  the  sun; 

Beat  down  thy  trident  where  the  sea  surf  raves, 
And  snow  white  navies  rise  amid  the  waves; 
And  where  thy  iron  trident  strikes  the  strand 
The  cities  maratime  in  clusters  stand. 

But  when  thy  energy  is  turned  away 
The  nations  crumble,  and  the  states  decay; 
And  blocks  Cyclopean  in  the  sands  lie  drifted 
To  show  how  empires  fade,  how  realms  are  riftedr 
When  from  their  soil  thy  trident  has  been  lifted. 

The  world  is  but  an  ocean  of  unrest 
Whose  tidal  billows  wander  to  the  West; 
For  age  on  age  the  ancient  East  did  hold 
Unnumbered  people  and  uncounted  gold. 


THE  SHORT-HAIRED  POET.  127 

Most  happy  Kansas!  prosperous  and  free, 
She  rests  upon  the  margin  of  the  sea; 
And  day  by  day  upon  her  shores  are  hurled 
The  tidal  billows  of  the  olden  world. 

And  Business,  now,  with  unremitting  toil 
Goes  beating  down  his  trident  on  the  soil; 
And,  as  he  moves,  the  fields  of  yellow  grain 
Rise  waiving  on  the  prairie  and  the  plain; 

And  scarce  the  soil  his  iron  trident  meets, 
Up  springs  a  city  with  a  hundred  streets: 
The  streets  are  crowded,  Business  gives  a  smile, 
And  moves  on,  pounding  in  Neptunian  style. 

O'er  Western  wilds  the  printing  press  each  year 

Becomes  a  braver,  bolder  pioneer. 

No  dangers  daunt  it,  and  no  toils  o'ertax; 

It  camps  beside  the  rifle  and  the  axe; 

And  while  the  night  stars  in  the  west  decline, 
The  types  are  clicking  on  the  picket  line; 
And  where  to-day  unnumbered  wild  deer  run, 
To-morrow's  trade,  like  Memnon,  greets  the  sun. 

Once  Noble  Prentis  did  a  story  tell 

About  one  mule,  that  tumbled  in  a  well; 

And  how  they  threw  down  straw,  until,  all  right, 

The  mule  just  tramped  his  way  up  to  the  light. 


128  RHYMES  OF  IRON  QUILL. 

The  Kansas  press  has  had  that  way  to  do  — 

To  leave  the  bed-rock  and  to  work  up  through. 

The  well  is  filled  —  the  times  have  changed  since  then; 

O 

The  mule  is  out  and  can't  fall  back  again. 

The  last  year's  wildernesses  bloom  to-day; 
"Through  scars  to  stars "  the  live  State  makes  its  way. 
In  such  progressive  times  as  these  we  guess 
Most  easily  the  duty  of  the  Press. 

The  duty  of  the  Press  is,  day  by  day, 

To  swindle  old  Oblivion  of  his  prey. 

It  is  its  special  duty  to  reveal 

The  frightful  havoc  of  some  foeman's  steal] 

Like  porcupines  to  fling  a  lively  quill, 
Or  hurl  plumbago  with  destructive  skill. 
The  epic  bard,  the  minstrel  with  his  rhymes, 
Were  once  the  sole  historians  of  the  times; 

Barbaric  night  has  fled  before  the  dawn: 
The  harps  lie  stringless,  and  the  bards  are  gone. 
The  printing  press  has  now  usurped  their  power 
And  clanks  Clionian  music  hour  by  hour; 

While  from  the  pen  the  ink  drops  day  by  day 
Are  drowning  kings,  and  washing  thrones  away, 
The  local  Press  should  sedulously  strive 
To  build  up  business  and  to  make  it  live. 


THE  SHORT-HAIRED  POET.  129 

Business  is  what  the  people  want  to  hear; 
The  Press  should  echo  it  from  far  and  near. 
No  town  can  hope  prosperity  and  trade, 
Unless  the  Press  shall  vigorously  aid. 

The  local  Press  must  utter  loud  and  long 
Commercial  lyrics  in  unceasing  song; 
Must  sing,  in  notes  sonorous,  clear  and  sharp, 
Songs  that  re-echo  like  Timesis'  harp. 

But  if  the  Press,  in  irresponsive  strains, 
Shall  fail  to  sing  of  business  and  of  brains; 
Shall  leave  the  people  and  the  people's  toil; 
Shall  rise  above  the  workshop  and  the  soil; 

And  if  the  people  shall  at  last  behold 

A  Press  responsive  to  the  power  of  gold, 

A  change  will  come;   and  then  the  Press  will  be 

Thrown,  like  the  gilded  harper  —  in  the  sea. 

With  such  high  duties  honored,  we  may  guess 
What  is  the  future  mission  of  the  Press. 
'Tis  theirs  to  be,  as  in  some  clock  tower  high, 
Seeing  and  seen  by  all  both  far  and  nigh; 

'Tis  theirs  to  be  the  dial  of  the  times, 
And  mark  the  progress  of  all  lands  and  climes. 
As  useful  arts  come  struggling  up  through  trial, 
The  Press  records  them  on  its  iron  dial; 


130  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

And  as  its  iron  fingers  slowly  mark 
The  forward  movement  on  the  iron  arc, 
The  world  looks  up  with  fervor  from  below, 
Watching  the  iron  minutes  come  and  go. 

What  Kansas  wants  is  pioneers,  not  partisans; 
Wants  poorer  orators  but  better  artisans. 
The  politicians  have  become  redundant, 
The  moribund  ones  should  be  mori-bundant. 

We've  gathered  here  from  places  far  away; 
Have  brought  our  knitting  and  intend  to  stay; 
And  all  of  us  —  the  greater  part  at  least  — 
Like  ancient  wise  men,  came  here  from  the  East. 

We  do  not  live  so  elegant  and  well 
As  we've  been  "used  to" — if  you  heard  us  tell  — 
For  some  of  us  in  marble  halls  lived  grand; 
And  now  our  only  hauls  are,  hauling  sand. 

And  those  who  nations'  destinies  might  sway, 
Are  out  here  breaking  prairie  by  the  day. 
Men  who  have  led  brigades  with  bugle  sounding 
Are  here  police,  nomadic  pigs  impounding. 

Men  for  whom  senates  would  suspend  their  rules 
Are  using  oratory,  here,  to  mules; 
And  he  who  watered  Eastern  stock  completes 
His  education,  here,  in  watering  streets. 


THE  SHORT-HAIRED  POET.  131 

But  over  this  we  must  not  feel  depressed  — 
We're  building  up  the  empire  of  the  West. 
We  have  our  ills,  but  these  will  soon  be  passed; 
Sorrows,  like  boots,  aren't  always  on  the  last. 

These  trifling  troubles  soon  will  shrink  away 
Like  dew,  and  gamblers,  at  the  break  of  day. 
Those  honored  names  we  gladly  would  applaud 
Who  visit  us  this  evening  from  abroad, 

Although  not  well  acquainted,  we  meanwhile 
Have  read  your  papers  and  we  like  your  style. 
We  do  not  let  your  efforts  go  to  waste; 
We  have  applauded  with  the  shears  and  paste; 

And,  speaking  metaphorically,  thus 

We  stuck  to  you,  and  hope  you  will  to  us. 


132  RHYMES  OF  IRON  QUILL. 


A  ROMANCE. 


PREFACE. 

When  a  person  knows  a  story  that  he  thinks  he  ought 

to  tell, 
If  he  doesn't  get  to  tell  it,  why  of  course  he  don't  feel 

well ; 
And  if  no  one  stops  to  listen,   why  of  course  a  man 

will  feel 

All  broke  up  and  dislocated,  and  uneasy  as  an  eel ; 
That's  the  reason  that  I  ask  you,  in  a  sad,  imploring 

way : 

Here's  a  little,  bob-tailed  gushlet,  I  will  tell  it  if  you 
stay. 

CHAPTER    I. 

Well  !  the  heroes  of  my  story  are  a  maiden  and  a  youth  ; 
Sam  was  raised  in  Indiana,  and  the  girl  lived  in  Duluth. 
Where  my  subjects  met  each  other,  I  presume  I  can't 

relate  — 
I  am  told  it  was  Wisconsin,  and  suppose  that  is  the 

State ; 

Sam  was  storing  ardent  spirits,  and  engaged  in  ped 
dling  stencils, 

WThile  the  girl  was  mangling  hash  with  some  old  hotel 
utensils  ; 

And  they  met  and  loved  each  other,  in  that  rash, 
erratic  way 

That  is  told  of  in  the  novel,  or  is  acted  in  the  play. 


A  ROMANCE.  133 

How  a  man  can  go  distracted  on  a  female,  as  her  lover, 
Is  a  mystery  to  me  that  I  never  could  discover ; 
And  I  wish  I  could  discover  why  a  woman  likes  a  man 
With  such  horrible  devotion,  but  I  don't  believe  I  can. 

On  the  shores  of  Yellow  Paint, 

After  winter,  cold  and  chill, 
When  the  spring-time  strikes  its  focus, 
By  what  magic  hocus-pocus 
Come  the  primrose  and  the  crocus, 

On  the  meadow  and  the  hill  ? 
Whyfore  buds  the  hamamellis  ? 
Whyfore  twining  up  the  trellis  ? 
Whyfore,  from  the  painted  lattice, 
Does  the  columbine  peep  at  us  ? 

If  you'll  answer  this,  I'll  fill 
You  with  ardent  spirits  gratis. 

In  this  world  of  mirth  and  music,  pork,  pomposity  and 

pain, 

There  is  absolutely  nothing  human  beings  can  explain. 
Here  I  leave  the  realms  of  reason,  disappointed  as  I 

am, 
And  return  unto  my  subject,  the  Wisconsin  girl  and 

Sam. 

Oh,  the  way  they  loved  each  other,  it  is  vain  to  try  to 

tell- 
Why  !  they  sickened  all  the  boarders  of  a  second-class 

hotel ; 


134:  RHYMES  OF  IRON  QUILL. 

This,  of  course,  used  up  the  landlord,  who  collapsed  for 

want  of  custom — 
He  ran  off  and  left  the  merchants  he  was  owing,  and 

it  bust  'em ; 
Then  the  heavy  business  fortunes  went  a-tumbling  into 

wrecks 
And    the    banks    began    suspending    and    a-certifying 

checks. 

Oh,  such  frantic,  furious  loving,  rabid,  restless,  reck- 
•  less,  rash  ! 

No!  the  people  couldn't  stand  it,  and  the  city  went  to 
smash ; 

All  the  citizens  protested,  and  the  subjects  of  our  stan 
zas 

Fished  their  trunks  out  of  the  window,  and  en-routed 
it  for  Kansas. 

(Pyrotechnic  exhibitions  of  affection  ought  to  grieve  — 
But  they] ye  made  the  world   a  circus  ever   since  the 

,days\of  Eve. 
Should  you  call  these  words  ironic,  you  will  make  a  big 

mistake, 

For  ferruginous   remarks   are  just   the  kind   I   never 
.     make. ) 

At  this  point  I  end  my  story;   by  the  way  that  you  re- 

,,1  ceive  it, 

And  the  honest  way  I  tell  it,  I  believe  that  you  be 
lieve  it. 


A  ROMANCE.  135 

CHAPTER    II. 

On  the  shores  of  Yellow  Paint,  where  the  billows  loudly 
roar, 

Where  the  blue-eyed  zephyrs  faint,  and  the  blue-eyed 
women  snore, 

On  a  bluff  beside  the  billows  —  on  a  bold,  projecting 
bluff  - 

Stands  a  large  and  stately  building,  that  is  made  of 
native  stuff; 

And  around  it  are  the  meadows,  and  the  orchards  and 
the  fields; 

High-priced  cattle  lowing  gently,  while  the  modest 
Berkshire  squeals; 

And  around  it  leaves  of  Autumn  promenade  with  reck 
less  rustle, 

And  around  it  Kansas  zephyrs  play  with  customary 
muscle. 

Do  you  ask  me  who  resides  here  —  I  must  say,  in  tear 
ful  tones, 

That  said  building  is  infested  by  a  bachelor  called 
Jones. 

On  the  shores  of  Yellow  Paint,  where  the  billows  sadly 

rave, 
Where  unhappy  zephyrs  plaint  o'er  the  graveyard  and 

the  grave, 

Where  the  cypress  and  the  yew  let  the  struggling  sun 
beams  through, 

And  the  marble  bids  adieu  to  the  beautiful  and  brave, 
Stands  a  splendid  mausoleum,  and  the  interesting  annals 
Of  the  owner  are  presented  in  extenso  on  the  panels; 


136  RHYMES  OF  IRON  QUILL. 

And  the  tomb  is  minaretted  with  a  white  Carrara  shaft, 
That  is  longer  than  the  oar-pole  of  a  Mississippi  raft. 

Should  you  ask  me  what  proud  being  underneath  this 
marble  lies, 

Should  you  ask  whose  loving  fingers  caused  these  sou 
venirs  to  rise, 

Should  you  ask  me  whose  loud  virtues  on  the  marble 
are  set  down  — 

Having  given  a  perusal,  I  should  say  his  name  was 
Brown. 

Brown,  you  see,  was  very  wealthy,  and  they  built  this 

to  attract 
The  attention  of  the  bugler,  when  the  final  doom  was 

cracked. 
On  the  massive  marble  panels  there  are  finely  written 

down 

Many  schedules  of  the  virtues  and  nobilities  of  Brown  — 
Many  virtues  great  and  rare;   but  I  cannot  help  from 

feeling 
They  omitted  Brown's  best  virtue  —  legal,  lawful,  thrifty 

stealing. 

CHAPTER    III. 

Now  I  think  I  hear  you  tell  me,  in  the  most  emphatic 

tones, 

'Tell  your  story  —  blast  your  Paint  Creek  ! — we  don't 
care  for  Brown  or  Jones. " 


A  ROMANCE.  137 

I  decline  to  be  chopped  off,  sir;   and  besides,  this  slight 

digression 
Has  been  told  by  way  of  kindness,  to  correct  a  false 

impression. 
It  might  happen  in  the  future  that  you'd  visit  Yellow 

Paint, 
Where   the    billows  wildly  roar,  where  the   saucy   sea 

gulls  soar, 
And  the  women  loudly  snore,  whether  they're  asleep 

or  ain't; 
And  beholding  Jones'  -'lay-out,"  you  would  instantly 

declare 
My  romantic  hoop-pole  lover  was  a-living  over  there. 

Then  you'd  pass  along  in  silence,  and  your  heart  grow 
cold  and  sad, 

And  you'd  take  a  dose  of  "ruin,"  if  the  fluid  could  be 
had; 

And  you'd  talk  of  deathless  loving,  and  devotion  deep 
and  true; 

All  at  once  you'd  see  Brown's  marble,  mid  the  cypress 
and  the  yew — 

Tomb  of  him  o'er  whose  bright  virtues  an  inscription 
sadly  grieves, 

While  the  column  flings  its  outline  through  the  mesh- 
work  of  the  leaves; 

And  you'd  say,  "See  there!  that  column:   it  must  cer 
tainly  belong 

To  the  wild  Wisconsin  maiden  —  she  who  loved  so  deep 
and  strong;  " 
10 


138  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

And  you'd  go  and  tell  the  story  to  the  first  one  you 

would  see — 
Tell  how  wildly  strong  their  love  was;   tell  how  Samuel 

and  she 

Produced  a  first-class  panic  and  demoralized  a  town. 
You'd  say,    "There   sleeps   her   potash" — you'd   turn 

and  point  to  Brown. 

But    you    wouldn't  be  correct,  for    some    long-haired,, 
frontier  mammoth 

Wed  the  girl  and  started  westward,  and  they're  living 

out  at  Klamath. 
Four  large  boys  get  daily  flouncings  from  the  tough, 

maternal  withe, 
And  a  woman  runs  that  outfit,  by  the  novel  name  of 

Smith. 

Sam  is  keeping  a  saloon  up  in  Canada,  Toronto, 

And  he  drinks  his  ardent  spirits,  just  like  you  do,  when 

you  want  to; 
Naught  he  careth  for  the  maiden,  whether  she's  extant 

or  not, 
For  she  long  has  been  forgotten,  just  as  Sam  has  been 

forgot. 

CHAPTER    IV. 

From  the  shores  of  Yellow  Paint, 

Where  the  billows  loudly  roar, 

From  that  adamantine  shore, 
Where  the  blue-eyed  zephyrs  faint, 

And  the  women  loudly  snore, 
Whether  they're  asleep  or  ain't, 

Comes  the  burden  of  my  song. 


A  ROMANCE.  139 

When  you  love  a  girl,  you  ourght 
Not  to  make  it  sweet  and  short  — 

Love  her  light,  but  love  her  long. 

If  you  love  her  wild  and  strong, 
You  will  soon  be  better  taught  — 
She  will  leave  you  without  thought. 
Should  you  have  a  maiden's  love  — 

Love  her  light,  but  love  her  long. 

I'm  opposed  to  moralizing,  in  a  solemn  spot  like  this, 
But  in  fact  man  ain't  constructed  for  a  heavy  strain  of 

bliss. 
Human  beings  are  like  boilers,  and  the  same  rules,  it 

would  seem, 

Have  an  equal  application  to  affection  and  to  steam. 
Making  love  and  putting  steam  on  will  entail  the  same 

mishaps  — 
When  you  get  on  too  much  pressure,  all  is  lost  by  a 

collapse. 

Now,  I  think  I  hear  you  ask  me,  in  the  most  imploring 

tones, 
"Do  us  full  poetic  justice  —  tell  us,  what    became   of 

Jones?" 
On  the  shores  of  Yellow  Paint,  break  the  angry  billows 

still; 
Still  the  marble  column  gleams,   and  the  angry  white 

gull  screams, 
While  the  habitat  of  Jones  still  is  seen  upon  the  hill; 


140  RHYMES  OF  IB  ON  QUILL. 

There  the  able-bodied  zephyrs,  with  their  melancholy 

moans, 
Rock    my    native-lumber    shanty  —  I'M    the    bachelor 

called  JONES. 


A  CORN  POEM. 

[Delivered  at  Kansas  Celebration,  Centennial  4th  of  July,  1876.  J 

Our  President  and  Governor  have  said. 
In  proclamations  that  you  all  have  read. 
That  we  the  record  of  the  hundred  years. 
Its  hopes,  its  histories,  its  pioneers, 
Should  hear  in  public;   wishing  to  obey, 
We  meet  together  on  the  present  day. 

As  local  annals  and  such  themes  as  those 
Are  more  attractive  when  addressed  in  prose. 
And  as  the  dense  statistics  of  the  times 
Are  somewhat  irreducible  to  rhymes. 
We  leave  those  subjects  to  their  proper  charge. 
And  take  the  liberty  to  ro  am  at  large. 
There  have  been  men  who  into  verse  complete 
Could  rhyme  a  township  map  or  tax  receipt; 
But  no  such  man  is  here.      Ourself  to-day 
Must  treat  of  subjects  in  a  general  way. 
While  present  prices  rule  on  steers  and  grain, 
Divine,  first-class  emotion  can't  sustain. 
At  such  low  figures,  any  Kansas  muse 
All  pyrotechnic  efforts  must  refuse; 


A  CORN  POEM. 

Dates,  names,  statistics,  and  such  themes  as  those 
Must  go  remanded  to  the  realms  of  prose; 
So  here  a  humble  poem  we  commence, 
Equivalent  to  corn  at  twenty  cents. 

Nate  Price,  of  Troy,  at  Leavenworth  last  June, 

Told  of  a  backwoods  Arkansaw  saloon: 

Two  gay  '-commercial  tourists,"  somewhat  dry, 

Stepped  in  for  drinks  as  they  were  passing  by. 

Says  one:    "Some  lemon  in  my  tumbler  squeeze." 

The  other  says:    ''Some  sugar,  if  you  please." 

Each  got  a  pistol  pointed  at  his  head  — 

••You'll  take  her  straight,"  the  bar-keep  gravely  said. 

The  gay  commercial  tourists  bowed  to  fate, 

And  took  their  drinks  and  exits  somewhat  straight. 

The  humble  poem  that  we  here  begin 

Has  got  no  lemon  and  no  sugar  in. 

It's  as  it  is,  and  we  beg  leave  to  state, 

On  this  -'auspicious  day"  you'll  take  it  straight. 

My  theme  to-day  is  History  —  not  the  shelf 
Whereon  she  sets  her  idols,  but  herself. 

If  I  examine  history  aright, 
I  read  of  one  long  and  unbroken  fight  — 
One  long,  thrill  drama;   every  scene  and  act 
Contains  the  record  of  a  city  sacked. 
From  time  to  time  the  curtain  drops  amain 
On  cities  blazing,  with  defenders  slain; 


142  RHYMES  OF  IKONQUILL. 

Yet,  ere  their  ashes  have  had  time  to  cool, 
They  start  again  to  opulence  and  rule. 
To  what  strange  power,  so  vitalized  and  strong, 
Do  these  recurrent  energies  belong  ? 
Whence  come  the  latent  forces  that  re-rear, 
From  ash  and  wave,  the  palace  and  the  pier? 

No  answer  back  the  old  historian  brings; 

His  is  a  tale  of  battles  and  of  kings. 

His  prose  and  verse  were  written  to  proclaim 

Some  useless  battle,  or  some  kingly  name  — 

No  honor  granted  to  the  brains  or  toil 

That  pluck  the  wealth  from  mountain-,  sea  and  soil. 

They  leave  that  out  —  but  throw  distinguished  light 

Upon  the  least  minutiae  of  a  fight. 

They  name  the  leaders,  and  each  word  they  said; 

The  hour,  the  spot,  some  phalanx  charged,  or  fled; 

The  time  and  place  some  squadron  came  in  view, 

And  what  it  did,  or  what  it  failed  to  do; 

And  then  because  some  something  was  not  done, 

This  king,  or  that,  is  whipped  and  has  to  run. 

Then  come  three  cheers  for  the  successful  king, 

And  bugles  peel  —  like  slippery  elms  in  spring. 

Since  Cecrops  landed  on  the  Grecian  shore, 
Brought  on  a  stock  —  started  a  country  store  — 
Picked  out  a  site  by  some  prophetic  guess, 
And  boomed  old  Athens  to  a  grand  success, 
The  human  mind  has  always  sought  renown 
In  founding  states,  or  building  up  a  town. 
Full  four  and  thirty  centuries  have  passed 
Since  enterprising  Cecrops  breathed  his  last, 


A  CORN  POEM.  143 

And  many  cities  since  that  early  day 

Have  grown  up  grandly,  and  have  passed  away; 

Yet  ancient  chroniclers  forget  to  state 

What  built  the  cities,  and  what  made  them  great. 

Of  those  of  whom  the  olden  stories  sing, 

The  greatest  hero  is  the  unknown  king. 

Of  him  of  whom  old  history  gives  no  clew  — 

This  unknown  king  —  declare  I  unto  you. 

"Who  framed  the  social  structure?  paid  the  bill? 

Who  organized  its  labor  and  its  skill? 

Who  built  the  ships  and  wharfs?  Who  wove  the  sail? 

Who  fed  their  armies?  and  who  forged  their  mail? 

No  answer  ancient  history  gives  back. 

These  unknown  kings  no  wealthy  cities  sack; 

And  history,  with  proud,  patrician  frown, 

Ignores  a  power  that  never  burned  a  town. 

Read  of  the  growth  of  states,  and  you  will  find 

Their  opulence  to  some  great  king  assigned; 

And  being  king,  by  accident  or  force, 

He  gets  the  credit,  as  a  thing  of  course. 

Now,  when  the  truth  is  told,  it  shows  two  things: 

First,  states  are  rich  and  great  in  spite  of  kings; 

And  next,  that  nations  opulent  are  made 

By  neither  kings  nor  battles,  but  by  trade. 

Old  Business  is  the  monarch.      He  rules  both 
The  opulence  of  nations  and  their  growth. 
Him  that  we  call  endearingly  «  Old  Biz"— 
He  does  the  work;   the  credit  all  is  his. 


144  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

He  builds  their  cities  and  he  paves  their  streets, 
He  feeds  their  armies  and  equips  their  fleets. 
Kings  are  his  puppets,  and  his  arm  alone 
Contains  the  muscle  that  can  prop  a  throne; 
Soon  would  the  gilded  fabric  tumble  down 
Were  Business  not  the  regent  of  the  crown. 

Old  History,  stand  up!     We  wish  to  ask 

Why  you  so  meanly  have  performed  your  task. 

Under  your  arm  you  have  a  showy  book, 

In  which  we  now  insist  that  we  may  look; 

Would  like  to  see  what's  in  that  gilt-edged  tome. 

Say,  did  Old  Business  ever  reign  in  Rome? 

You  say  he  didn't?     Well,  may  we  inquire 

If  the  aforesaid  Business  reigned  at  Tyre? 

"Don't  b'lieve  he  did?  "     Well,  look  the  index  through 

And  see  if  he  is  mentioned  once  by  you. 

"Can't  find  his  name?  "     Well,  that  is  somewhat  queer. 

Say,  of  Old  Business  did  you  ever  hear? 

You  never  did?     Well,  I'm  inclined  to  think 

Pens  full  of  pigs,  and  not  pens  full  of  ink, 

Should  be  the  object  of  your  future  skill, 

And  that  your  book  should  feed  the  paper  mill. 

Oh,  History!  the  language  may  be  broad, 

But  we  must  here  impeach  thee  as  a  fraud. 

There  is  a  cheerful  story  that  is  told 

About  a  great  Egyptian  king  of  old; 

He  thought  to  build  a  lighthouse  on  an  isle 

That  fronted  on  the  delta  of  the  Nile. 

He  thought  to  take  the  money  of  the  state, 

Build  something  big,  and  be  forever  great. 


A  CORN  POEM.  145 

He  called  for  architects,  selected  one, 

And  turned  him  over  treasure  by  the  ton. 

On  that  flat  isle,  o'er  which  the  breakers  curled, 

Rose  up  the  second  wonder  of  the  world; 

Far  o'er  the  land  and  distant  ocean  viewn, 

Five  hundred  feet  in  snow  white  marble  hewn; 

And  on  its  summit,  watch  fires,  day  and  night, 

Directed  shipping  with  a  constant  light  — 

The  tower  of  Pharos,  capped  with  massive  ledge, 

Bearing  the  monarch's  name  upon  the  edge, 

And  o'er  the  sea  for  many  a  league  marine 

The  royal  name  of  Ptolemy  was  seen. 

The  architect,  unhonored  and  unknown, 

Died,  leaving  all  the  credit  to  the  throne; 

The  man  whose  splendid  genius  planned  and  wrought 

Was  not  considered  worthy  of  a  thought. 

Then  died  the  king,  and  people  one  by  one 

Spoke  of  the  tower  as  something  he  had  done. 

There  stands  the  lighthouse,  but  each  new  decade 

Beholds  the  king's  inscription  slowly  fade. 

It  dimmer  grows,  until  it  fades  from  sight, 

And  then  a  new  inscription  comes  to  light; 

The  architect  asserts  his  rightful  claim  — 

Where  stood  the  king's,  now  stands  the  builder's  name. 

The  king's  name,  wrought  in  stucco  work  and  paint, 

Each  year  beheld  grow  dimmer  and  more  faint; 

Filled  with  cement,  this  sentence  had  been  hid: 

"  For  mariners,  by  Sos-tra-tos,  ofCnid. " 


146  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

The  rugged  letters,  carved  in  massive  Greek, 
The  builder  and  his  residence  bespeak, 
While  in  the  dust,  upon  the  sea  and  shore, 
The  kingly  name  goes  scattered  evermore. 

Great  states,  whose  splendid  ruins  scattered  lie, 

Have  stood  like  wonders  in  the  days  gone  by; 

And  every  state,  before  it  met  decay, 

Has  ruled  the  world  on  some  eventful  day  — 

Has  taken  rule  by  virtue  of  its  sons. 

Through  every  state  the  thread  of  empire  runs; 

The  ancient  nations  and  the  ancient  creeds 

Are  strung  on  empire  like  a  row  of  beads; 

And  on  the  ruins  that  in  silence  sleep, 

The  name  of  Business  has  been  graven  deep. 

And  he  has  made  them  be  what  they  have  been; 

Has  made  them  win  because  they  needs  must  win. 

And  he  the  architect,  who  planned  and  wrought, 

Building  no  better  than  he  knew  and  thought  — 

And  over  all,  in  stucco  work  and  paint, 

The  names  of  kings  are  feebly  seen  and  faint. 

The  now  aggressive  spirit  of  the  age 
Adds  to  old  History  an  unwritten  page. 
Chip  off  the  paint  and  plaster,  and  anew 
Restore  the  name  of  Business  to  our  view. 

Vain  were  an  effort,  in  this  modern  age, 
To  tell  when  Business  came  upon  the  stage; 
First  when  and  where  he  hung  his  shingle  out, 
Is,  like  a  jury  trial,  full  of  doubt. 


A  CORN  POEM.  147 

The  first  important  European  town, 

In  point  of  time  and  subsequent  renown, 

Was  Athens;   and  when  founded,  facts  attest 

That  nerve  and  business  then  were  tending  west. 

If,  for  a  point  of  time  to  fix  upon, 

We  take  the  era  of  King  Solomon, 

We  find  that  restless  movement  of  the  race 

Toward  the  western  world  is  taking  place; 

The  emigration  has  become  so  vast, 

With  buccaneers  the  seas  are  swarming  fast; 

Athens  grows  large,  and  public  spirit  calls 

For  graded  streets  and  more  extensive  walls; 

Then  Greece  fills  up,  until  the  moving  host 

Is  banked  upon  the  Adriatic  coast. 

The  sea  but  for  a  moment  stops  the  tide: 

Brundusium  springs  from  the  Italian  side. 

Then  west  by  north,  in  undiminished  size, 

The  volume  of  the  emigration  plies; 

Back  o'er  the  line,  to  deep  Brundusium's  bay, 

Rome  builds  and  paves  the  world-wide  Appian  way. 

Checked  by  the  western  sea,  the  restless  tide 

Builds  up  a  chain  of  cities,  side  by  side. 

Then,  seeking  vent  on  scarce  divergent  lines, 

Boils  through  the  foot  hills  of  the  Apennines, 

Builds  Florence,  Milan,  Genoa,  Turin, 

Halts  at  the  Alps,  but  halts  to  re-begin; 

Then,  like  a  pent-up  torrent,  the  advance 

Pours  through  the  Alps  and  floods  the  plains  of  France. 

The  path  of  empire  follows  in  its  train; 

The  western  world  it  gives  to  Charlemagne. 


148  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

Still  on  it  goes,  the  straits  of  Dover  crossed, 
England  opposes,  but  her  cause  is  lost; 
The  island  fills,  no  land  is  left;  then  she 
Starts  out  to  grasp  the  empires  of  the  sea. 

Who  planned  this  movement?     Who  impelled  the  tide? 
Kings  tried  to  stop  it,  but  as  vainly  tried. 
How  quickly  is  the  frail  conundrum  guessed: 
It  was  Old  Business  —  he  was  going  west. 

This  bright  New  World  —  its  wonderful  career, 
Is  too  well  known  to  be  examined  here; 
Its  hopes,  its  progress,  rapid  and  diverse, 
Need  greater  inspiration  to  rehearse. 
To-day  we  turn  the  hour  glass,  and  anew 
The  sands  of  a  fresh  century  start  through. 

On  July  Fourth  we  always  float  the  flag 
And  push  the  old  bald  eagle  from  the  crag; 
Fly  him  the  length  and  breadth  of  this  fair  land, 
From  the  Penobscot  to  the  Rio  Grande; 
Then  without  rest  we  quickly  start  him  on 
A  trip  from  Florida  to  Oregon; 
Then  bring  him  back,  and  boost  him  to  the  sky, 
And  let  him  stay  there  till  the  next  July. 

Oh,  grand  old  bird!  o'er  many  a  weary  mile 
They've  made  you  sail  in  oratoric  style, 
While  fledgling  speakers,  in  refulgent  prose, 
Capped  many  a  gorgeous  climax  as  you  rose. 


A  CORN  POEM.  149 

To-day  our  choicest  colors  are  unfurled, 
Soar  up,  proud  bird,  and  circle  round  the  world. 
And  we  predict  that  nowhere  will  you  find 
A  place  like  Kansas  that  you  left  behind. 
He  who  has  lived  in  Kansas,  though  he  roam, 
Can  find  no  other  spot  and  call  it  "Home." 

As  Ingalls  says,  a  Kansas  man  may  stray  — 

May  leave  —  perchance  depart,  or  go  away  — 

In  short  may  roam,  but,  be  it  anywhere, 

He  must  return,  if  he  can  raise  the  fare. 

No  other  State  those  wants  so  well  subserve 

Of  enterprise,  of  energy,  of  nerve; 

No  other  State  more  thoroughly  maintains 

A  deep,  firm  hold  on  enterprise  and  brains; 

No  other  State  has  held  a  greater  power 

To  meet  the  harsh  requirements  of  the  hour. 

Though  border  war  her  cities  overrun, 

Though  swarms  of  locusts  shade  the  summer  sun, 

No  matter  what  misfortunes  may  occur, 

The  State  goes  on  as  if  they  never  were. 

Cities  arise  where  towns  were  burned  before. 

The  prairies  sparkle  with  the  church  and  store, 

And  painted  harvesters,  fleet  after  fleet, 

Like  yachts,  career  through  seas  of  waving  wheat. 

We  all  believe  in  Kansas;  she's  our  State, 

With  all  the  elements  to  make  her  great  — 

Young  men,  high  hopes,  proud  dreams — 'tis  ours  to  see 

The  State  succeed  to  what  the  State  should  be. 


150  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

And  when  a  hundred  years  have  drifted  by, 
When  comes  the  next  Centennial  July, 
When  other  orators,  in  other  verse, 
Far  better  days  in  better  ways  rehearse, 
When  other  crowds,  composed  of  other  men, 
Shall  re-enact  the  present  scene  again, 
May  they  be  able  then  to  say  that  she 
Is  all  that  we  have  wished  the  State  to  be. 


THE  MEDICINE  MAN. 


A  STORY  OF  A  KANSAS  PIONEER. 


Stories  often  teem  with  sadness  —  this  is  desolate  and 

grim: 

It  is  of  a  Kansas  doctor,  and  the  way  we  treated  him; 
And  the  object  of  these  verses  is  an  eloquent  appeal 
To  those  higher,   nobler  feelings   that,  of  course,  you 

know,  you  feel. 

Any  man  who  hears  this  story  is  obliged  to  shed  a  tear; 
When  I  read  it  to  the  editor  that  runs  the  Pioneer 
Hopeless  melancholy  took  him  in,  and  for   a  week  or 

more 
He  was  wading  round  in  gum  boots  through  the  tears 

upon  the  floor. 

Out  to  Kansas  came  a  doctor,  wide  awake  and  full  of 
pluck; 

Up  in  Atchison  he  settled,  and  he  leaned  up  close  to 
luck. 


THE  MEDICINE  MAN.  151 

There  he  hung  out  his  diploma,  and  he   stayed   from 

spring  to  fall, 
But  he  never  saw  an  invalid,  and  never  got  a  call. 

Colonel   Martin   then  advised  him  that  more  practice 

could  be  got 

If  he  only  shipped  his  talent  to  suburban  Wyandotte. 
Up  in  Wyandotte  he  lingered  just  about  a  year  in  all, 
And  he  talked  about  his  college,  but  he  never  reached 

a  call. 

Buchan  said:    "Raid  Topeka;"   but  Taylor  calmly  said: 
"  Try  Lea venworth  or  Lawrence,  'hwich'  are  better,  in 

their  stead. " 

Lawrence,  Leavenworth,  Topeka  yielded  similar  results, 
And   he  felt  much  disappointment,  but  he  didn't  feel 

much  pulse. 
One  sad  day  he   met   with    Murdock,   who    observed: 

"Come  down  below; 
Try  the   Nile  of  sunny  Kansas;"  and  the   doctor   said 

he'd  go. 
First  he  cashed  a  fat  ancestral  draft;   then,  plunging  in 

the  dark, 
Gave  to  fortune  and  to  Murdock  the  direction  of  his 

bark. 

Down  at  Wichita  he  anchored,  but  his  chance  was  just 

as  slim; 

His  bark  was  all  Peruvian  —  they  had  no  need  of  him. 
Shortly  after  he  had  opened  out  in  busy  Wichita,' 
He    absorbed   by    merest    accident    the    rudiments   of 

"draw." 


152  RHYMES  OF  IRON  QUILL. 

His  office  stayed  unopened  for  a  few  eventful  days; 
He  diagnosed  that  noble  game  in  all  its  wondrous  ways. 
One  eve  he  found  a  bob-tailed  flush  of  most  important 

size; 
He  stayed  behind  it,  and  became  a  pauper  in  disguise. 

Then  said  he:  "This  'bleeding  Kansas'  is  no  place  for 
me  to  dwell, 

One  lone  'call'  in  three  years  and  a  half,  and  the  man 
that  'called'  was  well." 

Then  a  very  lonesome  shirt  or  two  into  his  trunk  he 
stored, 

And  he  left  his  watch  in  mortmain  with  his  landlord 
for  his  board; 

And  he  straightened  up,  disgusted,  and  relieved  his 
burdened  mind 

With  opinions  of  the  country  he  was  now  to  leave  be 
hind. 

tl  There  is  something  to  this  country  that  I  do  not 
understand; 

Working,  scheming,  trade  and  business,  lively  lawsuits, 
labor,  land. 

There  is  not  that  noble  yearning  here  for  pills  and  cul 
tured  thought: 

All  my  classic  erudition  is  both  useless  and  unsought; 

And  the  people,  as  I  find  them,  are  as  ignorant  as 
geese 

Of  the  woes  of  Asia  Minor  and  the  Iliad  of  Greece. 


THE  MEDICINE  MAN.  153 

' 'No  one  stops  to  read  my  sheepskin  that   has  hung 

from  week  to  week; 
No   one  ever  mentions    Ajax,   no   one    ever    mentions 

Greek. 
People  suffer  in  abundance  from  the  most  unheard-of 

health, 
And   they  keep  acquiring  lawsuits   and  accumulating 

wealth. 
Day  by  day  a  man  keeps  working,  just  as  happy  as  a 

clam, 
If  he  only  has  the  cash  to  buy  a  lawsuit  and  a  ham. 

'•Only  yesterday  I  saw  a  man  I  thought  would  surely 

die; 
He  had  got  a  compound,  comminuted  fracture  of  the 

thigh. 
Aching  but  a  half  an  hour  or  so,  the  leg  declined  to 

swell, 
He  poured  cold  water  on  it,  and  the  next  day  it  was 

well. 
Then  he  worked  six  hours  that  afternoon,  and,  ere  the 

sun  went  down, 
He  got  into  a  lawsuit  with  the  fattest  man  in  town. 

"Now  and  here   I  pack  my  little  trunk.      By  vum!   I 

wouldn't  stay 
In  climates  where  a  man  gets  old,  dries  up,  and  blows 

away; 
Wouldn't   live  in   a  community  where  fortunes  every 

week 

Can  be  made  by  men  without  the  slightest  rudiments 
of  Greek. 


154  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

Let  me  —  let  me  find  some  sickly,  classic,  sentimental 

spot. 
Here,  sir!  check  my  baggage  eastward,  via  Paint  Creek 

and  Fort  Scott." 

Then  he  wiped  the  perspiration  from  his  high  and  noble 

brow, 

And  he  filed  some  affidavits  that  I  don't  remember  now. 
Shortly  after   this,  a  mule   train,   from  the  westward 

coming  slow, 
Camped  beside  the  raging  Paint  Creek,  with  the  doctor 

on  the  go. 
An  old  army  mule  that  evening,  after  supper,  just  for 

fun, 
Kicked  and  broke  the  doctor's  arms  and  legs,  and  all 

his  ribs  but  one. 

'This  old  mule  would  make  a  hero  for  a  romance  or  a 
song; 

When  the  drums  beat,  and  the  .bugles  sounded  battle 
loud  and  long, 

He  enlisted  in  the  army,  and  he  helped  to  pull  a  train, 

Up  the  mountains,  down  the  valleys,  through  the  sun 
shine  and  the  rain; 

And  right  well  he  served  his  country,  for  he  knew 
where  duty  lay; 

He  could  live  for  weeks  on  end-gates,  when  they  couldn't 
give  him  hay. 


THE  MEDICINE  MAN.  155 

No  complaining,  no  desertion;   through  the  gumbo  to 

the  hub, 
Week  by  week  our  long-eared    hero    jerked   a    wagon 

load  of  grub. 
Lightning  struck  him,  cannon  shot  him,  but  he  never 

failed  nor  flunked; 
Danger  left  him  as  it  found  him  —  undiscouraged,  un- 

defunct, 

And  in  all  my  army  service  I  have  never  seen  a  mule 
With  a  keener  comprehension  of  the  educated  fool. 
He  would  spot  a  man  instanter,  if  he  overheard  him 

speak 
About  Darwin,  Herbert  Spencer,  Correlation,  Force  or 

Greek. 
He  would  work  and  watch  in  silence,  and  look  sheepish 

day  by  day, 
One  eye  closed  in  meditation,  till  that  man  got  in  his 

way; 
Then  that  person's  friends  were  lucky  if  they  did  not 

have  to  make 
A  collection  of  their  comrade  with  a  basket  and  a  rake. 

Three  long  days  and  nights  the  doctor  in  my  shanty 

did  remain; 
Oftentimes  he'd  grow  despondent,  and  have  symptoms 

of  a  pain; 
Oftentimes   he'd  seem  discouraged,  and  would  say  in 

accents  weak: 
"Oh!  condemn  a  State  where  folks  get  rich  without  a 

word  of  Greek. " 


156  RHYME 8  OF  IRONQUILL. 

Then  his  language  would  get  flighty  from  the  pressur< 

of  his  ills, 
Mixing  Latin,  Greek  and  Ajax   up  with   three  jacks 

checks  and  pills. 
But  I  knew  he  would  recover,  or,  at  least,  I  thought  \ 

knew 
That  the  ozone  in  the  climate  was  dead  sure  to  brin^ 

him  through. 
On  the  fifth  day,  convalescent,  rose  this  damaged  gues 

of  mine, 
And  upon  the  sixth,  all  right,  but  sad,  he  crossed  th< 

Kansas  line. 
Left  behind  him  in  his  exit  were   ambition,  hope  anc 

spunk; 
Kansas  retained  his  enmity — Paint  Creek  retained  his 

trunk. 

Now  a  true  poetic  justice  very  rigidly  asserts 

That  I  ought  to  add  a  sequel  to  our  hero  and  his  shirts: 

And  a   thorough  comprehension  of  the  reason  of  th( 

rule, 
Says  the  sequel  might  embody  something  further  of  th< 

mule. 

Well,  our  hapless,  trunkless  hero  has  regained  his  native 

State; 
He's  aesthetic;  he's  got  wisdom,  and  is  honored  —  bu1 

sedate. 
He  has  found  congenial  country,  rich  and  sickly,  so  tc 

speak, 
Where  the  people  live  on  coupons,  and  like  medicine  and 

Greek; 


THE  MEDICINE  MAN.  157 

And  a  very  pleasant  stipend  he  is  able  now  to  draw 

From  the  active  perspiration  of  his  large  and  manly 
jaw. 

He  has  gotten  out  a  volume,  which  a  leading  paper  said 

Showed  a  vast  amount  of  learning,  and  a  very  level 
head; 

And  he  lectures  to  the  students  in  the  colleges  near  by; 

And  he  tells  about  ambition  —  how  a  man  should  do  or 
die; 

Talks  of  allegoric  eagles  flying  upward  to  the  sun; 

Tells  them  all  about  success  in  life,  and  how  the  thing 
is  done. 

And  he  lectures  those  poor  students  all  about  the  roll 
of  fame  — 

How  a  man  should  take  a  broad-axe,  as  it  were,  and 
hew  a  name; 

Talks  of  noble,  high  endeavor,  and  refers  in  strains 
sublime 

To  those  antiquated  footsteps  left  upon  those  sands  of 
time. 

These  same  lectures  have  been  printed  —  they're  the 
best  I  ever  saw; 

But  they  do  not  mention  Kansas,  and  they  don't  refer 
to  "draw." 

Now,  my  heart  would  swell  with  pathos,  and  my  lan 
guage  fill  with  gush, 

Just  to  think  what  nerve  it  takes  to  stay  behind  a  bob 
tail  flush; 


158  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

But,  of  course,  it  isn't  business  for  a  lecturer  to  speak 
Of  such  subjects  to  a  people  who  are  so  diseased  with 

Greek. 
But  if  they  will  send  these  students  to  the  shore  of 

Yellow  Paint  — 
To  that  boulder-drifted  shore,  where  the  angry  billows 

roar, 
And  the  women  loudly  snore,  whether  they're  asleep  or 

ain't  — 
I  could  tell  them  in  my  lecture  that  there  seems  to  be 

a  law 
That  applies  as  well  to  greatness,  as  we  know  it  does 

to  "draw. " 
If  you  have  some  pairs  to  draw  to,  and  have  only  got 

the  sand, 

You  may  make  the  world  a  pauper  on  the  first  or  sec 
ond  hand. 
If  you  have  no  pair  to  draw  to,  you  must  "ante"  and 

must  wait: 

You  are  likely  to  be  gobbled,  but  riot  likely  to  be  great. 
Fame  is  something  like  the  waiter  that  went  roaring 

down  the  hall, 
Giving  neither  bread  nor  greatness  to  the  man  with 

one  fish-ball. 

When  the  summer  moon  is  beaming  on  the  prairie  and 

the  stream, 
When  my  silver-lighted  shanty  seems  the  palace  of  a 

dream. 


THE  MEDICINE  MAN.  159 

Then  I  sit  out  on  my  wood  pile,  and  I  ponder  very  fast 

O'er  the  somewhat  funny  present,  and  the  much  more 
funny  past; 

Think  of  things  that  might  have  happened  —  things  for 
gotten  long  ago  — 

How  the  past  had  changed  the  present  had  it  hap 
pened  so  and  so. 

Then  I  think  about  the  future,  and  the  turn  that  things 
may  take; 

And  I  say:  Hopes  are  but  dreamings  of  a  person  wide 
awake; 

Then  I  add:  Good  bye,  old  Mundane,  as  to  couch  and 
dreams  I  go, 

I'm  the  bachelor  of  Paint  Creek,  and  my  name  is 

JOSEPH  JOE. 


160  RHYMES  OF  1RONQUILL. 


AESOP'S   FABLES. 

The  falsehoods  of  the  immortal  ^Esop  bear  such  an 
appearance  of  innocence  and  truth  that,  as  examples, 
they  have  been  handed  down  from  antiquity,  undimmed 
by  suspicion,  and  unshaken  by  criticism. 

To  the  young  and  rising  youth,  whom  tender  years 
for  future  efforts  are  shaping,  who  are  yet  to  go  to  the 
legislature,  to  edit  newspapers,  run  for  office,  and  hold 
positions  of  perquisites  and  emoluments  —  more  espe 
cially  those  who  are  to  be  the  sole  hope  for  candidates 
in  the  future  —  a  study  of  ^Esop's  successful  efforts  are 
invaluable.  Having  had  to  gain  experience  from  con 
versations  with  candidates,  campaign  speeches  and  tele 
grams,  the  translator  can  imagine  how  gladly  HE  would 
have  hailed  these  models  of  successful  ability,  in  former 
years. 

The  mis-statements  and  mendacity  of  ^Esop  have  never 
been  surpassed;  as  such  they  are  here  translated  for  the 
scholars  of  the  Paint  Creek  school,  and  thrown  like 
bread  upon  the  angry  billows  of  the  Yellow  Paint. — 
TRANSLATOR. 


ZEPHYR  ET  CANINE.  161 


ZEPHYR  ET  CANINE. 


Once  a  Kansas  zephyr  strayed 
Where  a  brass-eyed  bird  pup  played, 
And  that  foolish  canine  bayed 

At  that  zephyr,  in  a  gay, 

Semi-idiotic  way. 
Then  that  zephyr,  in  about 
Half  a  jiffy,  took  that  pup, 
Tipped  him  over  wrong  side  up, 
Then  it  turned  him  wrong  side  out. 

And  it  calmly  journeyed  thence, 
With  a  barn  and  string  of  fence. 

H^EC  FABULA. 

When  communities  turn  loose 
Social  forces  that  produce 

The  disorders  of  a  gale, 
Act  upon  the  well-known  law: 
Face  the  breeze,  but  close  your  jaw. 

It's  a  rule  that  will  riot  fail: 
If  you  bay  it,  in  a  gay, 
Self-sufficient  sort  of  way, 

It  will  land  you,  without  doubt, 
Upside  down  and  wrong  side  out. 


162  RHYMES  OF  IRQJVQUILL. 

ANGUIS  ET  ANGUISH. 


Old  man  Snyder  found  a  snake, 
Frozen  stiffer  than  a  stake, 

And  he  tucked  it  in  his  breast, 
And  he  buttoned  up  his  vest. 
When  the  saurian  became  thawed, 
Mr.  Snyder  became  chawed, 

And  in  one  unbroken  stream 
He  proceeded  to  blaspheme, 
And  eradicate  the  plug 
From  a  little,  old  brown  jug. 

Then  he  took  a  modest  "snort," 
Of,  perhaps,  about  a  quart, 

And  conversed  as  if  he — well  — 

Had  profanity  to  sell. 
Year  by  year,  with  all  his  might, 

Snyder  tried  to  cure  that  bite; 
But  he  didn't  have  the  heft; 

So  one  day,  beside  the  jug, 

He,  while  heaving  at  the  plug, 
Caught  the  jim-james  and  got  left. 

MORAL. 

Any  man  that  is  astute,  sir, 
Keeps  his  reptiles  in  his  boots,  sir; 

But  its  thinner  than  a  wafer, 
Yes,  sir,  bitterer  than  borax, 
To  be  gnawed  about  the  thorax, 

One's  humanity  to  pay  for. 


THE  AXE-I-DENT.  103 


THE  AXE-I-DENT. 

Day  by  day  was  Thomas  seen 

On  the  head  of  Wolverine, 

And  the  old  primeval  rung 
As  his  five-pound  axe  he  slung; 

And  he  worked  with  smile  and  song, 

Making  "wood-cuts"  all  day  long. 

But  the  wood  grew  hard  to  chip, 
So  he  went  to  grind  his  axe; 
But  his  care  becoming  lax, 

Something  run  afoul  the  crank, 

And  it  gave  the  axe  a  yank, 

And  the  helve  it  gave  a  flip, 

And  it  reached  him  on  the  lip; 
Then  the  unreflecting  youth 
Nimbly  gulped  a  first-class  tooth. 

To  the  doctor  Thomas  goes, 
And  discourses  all  his  woes, 

Worldly,  physical  and  mental; 
But  the  doctor  shook  his  head, 
And  he  very  gravely  said: 
'  You  have  got  a  fell  disease, 
For  in  axe-i-dents  like  these 

Pains  are  always  inside-dental. '' 


164  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

SEQUEL. 

And  he  made  a  lot  of  pills 
Out  of  3-x  Graham  flour, 
Saying.  "Take  one  every  hour: 

They  will  cure  you  of  your  ills." 


MORAL. 


Any  man  will  loose  his  grip 
If  he  doesn't  feel  inclined, 
When  he  has  an  "axe  to  grind, " 

To  be  careful  of  his  "lip." 


PAVO. 

Said  a  peacock  unto  Juno, 
"What's  the  reason  I  can't  sing? 
See!  a  tail  I  can  unfold 
That  is  gorgeous  to  behold. 
Tell  me,  tell  me,  if  you  do  know, 
What's  the  reason  I  can't  sing, 
When  I'm  such  a  gorgeous  thing?' 

Juno,  answering  the  bird, 

Half  in  earnest,  half  in  fun, 
Said  injustice  would  be  done 

If  all  favors  were  conferred, 

Of  the  many,  upon  one. 


PAVO.  165 

FABULA    DOCET. 

Notwithstanding  what  we  wish, 
In  this  world  of  fact  and  fate, 
Some  must  fish  and  some  cut  bait  — 

Just  a  few  of  us  can  fish. 

See  that  orphan  boy  at  work, 

Working  early,  working  late; 

He  is  learning  how  to  wait, 
He  is  learning  not  to  shirk. 

Then  observe  the  rich  man's  son, 

Aping  style  and  making  bets  — 

Smoking  idle  cigarettes, 
Talking  chaff  and  having  fun. 

Thirteen  years  is  not  too  late 
For  that  orphan  boy  to  wait; 

Then  he'll  take  that  rich  man's  son, 

And  he'll  stop  his  little  fun, 
And  he'll  set  him  cutting  bait. 

Then  the  rich  man's  son  will  wish, 

As  the  iron  years  go  by, 

And  the  tears  come  in  his  eye, 
That  he  had  a  chance  to  fish. 

But  his  wish  will  come  too  late, 
For  the  orphan,  who  meanwhile 
Does  the  fishing,  smiles  a  smile 

And  compels  him  to  cut  bait. 


166  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 


AGRICOLA  ET   FILIUS. 


Brown  he  runs  a  farm  and  ranch 
By  the  billows  of  Lath  Branch, 
And  he  had  a  son  named  Jim, 
Who  had  never  learned  to  swim; 
And  one  Sunday  Jim  was  found 
Down  in  Lath  Branch  partly  drowned. 

But  old  Brown  knew  what  to  do; 
For  he  somewhere  cut  a  limb, 
And  he  somehow  stayed  with  Jim, 

And  he  somewhat  brought  him  to. 

MORAL. 

Do  not  run  a  farm  and  ranch 
By  the  billows  of  Lath  Branch. 

Men  named  Brown  with  boys  named  Jim. 

Ought  to  teach  their  boys  to  swim. 
Boys  named  Jim  most  always  drown 
If  their  other  name  be  Brown. 


THE  SWELL.  67 


THE   SWELL. 

On  the  walk  a  hat  did  lie, 
And  a  gallus  chap  sailed  by, 

And  he  cut  a  lively  swell  — 

He  was  clerk  in  a  hotel; 

And  he  gave  that  hat  a  kick  , 
And  he  came  across  a  brick  — 

Now  upon  a  crutch  he  goes, 

Minus  half  a  pound  of  toes. 

MORAL. 

When  you  see  a  person  thrown 

By  misfortune  or  by  vice, 

Help  him  thrive  or  seven  times  thrice; 
Help  him  up  or  let  alone. 

If  you  give  the  man  a  kick 

You  may  stumble  on  a  brick, 
Or  a  stone. 

Fate  is  liable  to  frown, 
And  the  best  of  us  go  down; 

And  in  just  a  little  while 

She  is  liable  to  smile. 
And  the  bad  luck  and  the  vice  t 

Seem  to  scatter  in  a  trice, 
And  to  hunt  their  holes  like  mice. 

And  the  man  you  tried  to  kick 

Now  has  changed  into  a  brick. 


168  RHYMES  OF  IRON  QUILL. 


PERSIMMONS. 


Once  a  fox,  upon  the  sly, 

Some  persimmons  did  behold, 
So  he  got  a  pole  and  poled; 

But  he  gave  up  with  a  sigh, 

And  acknowledged  his  mistake  - 
The  persimmons  wouldn't  rake. 

MORAL. 

Then  in  sorrow  he  did  say, 
As  he  slowly  walked  away, 

Fruit  of  that  kind  will  elude 
All  our  efforts,  I  am  told, 
If  the  pole  witn  which  it's  poled 

Hasn't  got  the  longitude. 


"DRAW/ 


Through  the  light-long  summer  day 

Sam  the  game  of  "draw  "  did  play; 
Through  the  summer  Sammy  laughed, 
Sang  and  played  the  game  of  draft. 

G-ay  and  jolly  and  serene  — 

With  his  breeches  of  nankeen. 


THE  INVIDIOUS  CANINE.  169 

Through  the  doleful  winter  days 
Still  at  poker  Sammy  plays; 

G-one  his  songs,  and  smiles  so  bland; 

He  is  waiting  for  a  hand; 
And  the  winter  skies  are  chill  — 
And  he  wears  that  nankeen  still. 

MORAL. 

Draft  and  nankeen  go  together 
Very  well  in  summer  weather, 

But  when  winter  time  sets  in 

Draft  and  nankeen  get  too  thin. 


THE  INVIDIOUS  CANINE. 

O'er  the  rough  and  rocky  ridge, 

Leading  downward  with  a  path 
To  the  brittle  little  bridge 

That  is  hung  across  the  Lath, 

Came  a  large,    inclement  bull  dog,   full^of 

wrath; 

But  the  canine  never  tarried, 
In  his  mouth  he  something  carried  — 

Like  a  miner,  wide  awake, 

He  had  been  and  raised  a  steak. 

Crossing  on  the  bridge,  his  glance 
To  the  water  thrown  by  chance, 

Saw  another  dog  and  meat 

In  precipitate  retreat: 

12 


170  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

Then  his  onward  course  he  slants, 
And  attempts  to  head  them  off— 

And  his  corpus  now  conceals 

Half  a  barrelful  of  eels. 

MORAL. 

When  a  man  has  raised  a  steak, 

If  he  labors  then  to  make 

Some  poor  neighbor  drop  his  meat. 
It  insures  his  own  defeat. 

No  one  merchant  yet  was  made 
Who  could  gobble  all  the  trade, 
Painfully  misfortune  pelts 
Those  who  reach  for  some  one  else; 
No  one  bull  dog  yet  could  eat 
Every  other  bull  dog's  meat. 
If  you  have  a  good-sized  bone 
Let  the  other  dog  alone. 


LIMBURGER. 


On  a  tree  there  sat  a  crow, 
In  his  bill  a  chunk  of  cheese; 

On  the  ground,  a  fox  below 

Said,  ' '  Some  music,  if  you  please. 

You  are  beautiful  of  wing, 

And  I  bet  that  you  can  sing." 


<'M>KU$  ET  CAPER.  171 

Cheered  by  flattery,  the  crow 
Sang,  and  dropped  the  cheese  below; 

Then  the  cunning  fox  did  freeze 

To  that  fallen  chunk  of  cheese, 
And  he  calmly  lugged  it  off, 
And  he  scoffed  the  song  with  scoff. 

MORAL. 

When  they  pat  you  on  the  back, 

When  they  say  that  you're  the  one, 

When  they  say  they're  on  the  track, 
And  "have  been  obliged  to  run;  " 

When  their  compliments  denote 
They  are  going  for  your  vote, 

You  can  do  just  as  you  please, 

But  —  you'd  better  watch  your  cheese. 


CAPERS  ET  CAPER. 

From  a  chimney  on  the  roof 

Of  the  Wilder  House  hotel, 

Did  a  William  goat  espy 

An  old  army  mule  go  by; 

Spied  those  vast  and  sail-like  ears  - 
And  he  jeered  the  mule  with  jeers. 


RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

Then  the  mule  he  made  a  tack, 

Brought  his  jib  round  to  the  wind. 

Main  and  mizzen  ears  a-back, 

And  his  starboard  eye  he  skinned; 

Then  he  reached  that  goat  a  hoof 

That  dismissed  him  from  the  roof. 

SOLILOQUY. 

Morals  two  this  tale  will  teach: 
First,  There  isn't  any  rule 

That  will  cypher  out  the  reach 
Of  an  ancient  army  mule; 

Second,  There  are  many  dangers 

In  mis-estimating  strangers. 


THE  LIFE  INSURANCE  AGENT  AN  I ) 
THE  POST  AUGER, 

Very  skillfully  and  fast, 

Boring  post-holes  in  the  soil, 
Worked  an  honest  son  of  toil; 

An  insurance  agent  passed, 

Saying,  ' '  Such  a  '  perfect  bore ' 
I  have  never  seen  before. " 

Then  he  sort  of  caught  his  breath, 

And  he  talked  that  man  to  death. 


THE  UNSOCIABLE  MILESTONES.  173 

HvEC    FABULA. 

Strange  it  is,  somehow  or  other 

We  are  bound  to  make  a  fuss, 
When  we  notice  in  another 

Vices  that  belong  to  us. 


THE  UNSOCIABLE  MILESTONES. 


Strung  along  a  highway  stood 
Twenty  milestones  made  of  wood, 

Undisturbed  by  storm  or  weather; 
And  the  jokers  said  their  say, 
As  they  passed  along  the  way: 
How  unsociable  are  they  — 

Milestones  never  get  together. 

But  the  milestones  cared  not  whether 
It  were  worse  or  it  were  best  — 
Undisturbed  by  jeer  or  jest, 

Two  were  never  seen  together; 
Duty  made  them  what  they  were, 
And  they  did  not  care  to  stir. 

MORAL. 

Men  there  are  whose  work,  whose  place, 
Is,  like  milestones,  to  mark  out 
Both  the  distance  and  the  route; 

Both  the  destiny  and  way, 

In  the  progress  of  the  race. 


174  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

Should  they  mingle  with  the  throng- 
That  moves  thoughtlessly  along, 

Then  their  duty  they  betray; 

Lonesome,  very  lonesome,  they; 
But  unmoved  by  hope  or  fear, 
Undisturbed  by  jest  or  jeer, 

There  their  duty  —  and  they  stay. 


SUCKER  AND  SALAMANDER, 

AN    AQUARIUM     STORY. 

In  an  ornamental  jar, 

Filled  with  blazing,  red-hot  tar, 

Did  a  salamander  swim; 
In  a  thousand  jolly  ways 
He  disported  in  the  blaze  — 

It  was  fun  alive  for  him. 

With  a  less  display  of  rank, 
Swam  a  sucker  in  a  tank, 

And  unto  himself  he  said: 
Would  that  I  were  in  his  place, 
Swimming  in  that  blazing  vase, 

And  that  he  were  in  my  stead. 

An  attendant  heard  the  speech, 

And  he  changed  them  each  with  each. 


LIGHTNING-BUG  AND  SKEETER.  175 

Then  the  salamander  sank 
To  the  bottom  of  the  tank, 

In  inanimate  repose; 
While  the  sucker  curled  and  died, 
Looking  just  as  peeled  and  fried 

As  a  Democratic  nose. 

MORAL. 

Souls  of  fire  may  dare  the  fire, 
May  aspire 

To  rule  the  fire; 
But  the  element  consumes 
Any  SUCKER  who  presumes. 


THE  LIGHTNING-BUG  AND  THE 

SKEETER. 


Once  a  lightning-bug  did  fly 

With  a  skeeter  down  the  street, 

One  hot  evening  in  July, 

And  these  words  he  did  repeat: 

See  me  shine!  see  me  shine!  " 

But  the  skeeter  gave  no  sign 

Of  ambition  or  design, 

And  these  words  he  did  repeat: 

;None  in  mine!   none  in  mine!" 


176  RHYMES  OF  IRON  QUILL. 

Then  an  urchin,  quick  as  scat. 

With  an  agitated  face 
And  an  antiquated  hat. 
To  the  lightning-bug  gave  chase. 
Then  the  skeeter  joined  the  race; 

Looked  the  ragged  urchin  o'er: 
Picked  an  unprotected  place, 

And  he  helped  himself  to  gore. 

DOCET. 

Life  is  somewhat  Janus-faced: 
Look  the  situation  o'er, 

Join  the  throng,  and  go  for  gore, 
Or — be  brilliant  and  get  chased. 


NEUTRALIA.  177 


NEUTRALIA; 

OB 

LOVE,   PHILOSOPHY  AND  WAR. 

[My  friend's  story.] 


CHAPTER    I. 

Well!  they  fired  upon  Fort  Sumter;  I  applied  for  a 
commission, 

And  I  got  it  through  the  efforts  of  a  one-horse  politi 
cian. 

And  assumed  the  fearful  grandeur  that  befitted  the  po 
sition. 

Being  young,  I  got  a  detail  on  the  staff  of  G-eneral 
Skubobs; 

Then  I  went  and  bought  a  quantity  of  military  du- 
bobs  — 

First,  a  lot  of  gilded  buttons,  feathers,  shoulder-straps 
and  sashes, 

Then  a  little  gilt-edged  sabre,  made  for  cutting  swells 
—  not  gashes; 

Then  I  went  and  bought  my  orderly  a  gorgeous  coal- 
black  charger, 

For  myself  1  bought  another  that  was  just  as  black, 
and  larger; 

Then  with  princely  grace  displayed  them  at  the  gen 
eral's  headquarters, 

And  I  signed  "by  order  of,"  to  the  military  orders. 


178  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

Now  I  pledge  my  sacred  honor  that  there's  nothing 
that  could  charm  me 

Like  a  detail  at  the  office  of  a  man  that  ran  an  army; 

And,  I'll  tell  you  confidentially,  I  honored  the  position, 

And  I  served  with  much  eclat,  (if  you  know  its  defini 
tion.) 

V  >ry  senseless  is  the  public,  very  obstinate  and  mulish, 

In  its  reverence  for  trifles  that  are  nothing  else  than 
foolish; 

And  it  honors  gilded  buttons  —  makes  no  odds  where 
it  may  find  them  — 

But  it  never  sees  the  person  who  is  standing  up  be 
hind  them. 

CHAPTER    II. 

What  the  world  at  large  calls  '-rank"  is  a  most  im 
posing  building, 

An  enormous  pasteboard  palace,  decked  with  minarets 
and  gilding; 

Sages  may  pronounce  it  empty,  and  the  preachers, 
transitory, 

But  it  isn't  any  difference  as  long  as  it  is  GLORY. 

Go  and  galvanize   a   peddler,   go   and    get   the  man   a 

scepter: 
Won't  he  run  his  little  kingdom  just  as  if  he'd  always 

kept  her? 
Go  and  stick  a  lot  of  tinsel  and  some  gilded  buttons 

on  him: 
Don't  the  princely  little  notions  settle  suddenly  upon 

him? 


NEUTRALIA.  179 

Yes,  before  this  piece  of  tinseling,  the  world's  vertebral 

column, 
Ain't  it  bended  in  a  manner  that  is  comically  solemn? 

G-o  and  get  a  third-class  drayman,  stupid,  awkward  as 

a  camel: 
I   can   wrap  him   up  in  purple,  I   can   dope   him   with 

enamel; 
Then  I'll  call  the  man  a  ; 'monarch,"  and  will  put  him 

in  a  palace, 

And  I'll  peg  some  courtiers  round  him,  dressed  con 
spicuously  gallus; 
Then  I'll  gamble  off  my  raiment,  that,  as  certain  as  I 

try  it  — 
That  as  sure  as  I  invest    him  with  the   potent,  royal 

fiat  — 
All  the  world  will  rush  to  honor  him,  in  one  convulsive 

riot. 

As  regards  these  sage  reflections,  it  is  very  much  es 
sential 

That  you  keep  them  to  yourself,  for  I  got  them  confi 
dential. 

Just  as  soon  as  I  had  heard  them,  off  I  went  and  bought 
a  sabre, 

And  resolved  to  go  for  G-LORY,  on  some  body  else's  labor; 

And  my  dreamings  of  the  future,  with  their  hues  kalei- 
doscoptic, 

Painted  me  a  taurine  youth  with  a  very  vitreous  optic. 


180  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

Then  unto  myself  I  said:  While  these  skies  are  so  pro 
pitious, 

I  will  go  and  see  the  elephant,  and  be  like  old  Fabricius; 

So  I  went  and  took  a  detail  at  the  general's  head 
quarters, 

And  I  signed  his  name,  and  mine,  to  the  military  orders. 

CHAPTER    III. 

Near  the  post  where  we  were  stationed  was  a  city, 
large  and  growing, 

And  its  avenues  and  houses  were  with  business  over 
flowing; 

On  the  hills,  beyond  the  echo  of  the  fierce  commercial 
scramble, 

Were  the  private  houses  builded,  with  magnificence  Al- 
hambral. 

And  the  handsome,  happy  maidens,  in  unending  swarms, 
were  flocking 

Down  the  sidewalks,  through  the  city,  stopping,  shop 
ping,  and  a-blocking 

Up  the  pavements;  while  the  gay  boys  were  continually 
dashing 

Through  the  highways,  with  the  lightning-legged  horse 
flesh  they  were  lashing. 

I  had  scarcely  made  an  entrance  to  my  military  station 

Ere  the  city  balls  and  parties  sent  me  up  an  invitation; 

There  was  one  thing  very  certain,  I  was  far  from  being 
handsome. 

But  I  am  willing  to  affirm  that  I  thought  that  I  could 
dance  some. 


NEUTRALIA.  181 

And  through  all  this  vale  of  sorrow,  I  was  never  known 

to  shirk  a 

Chance  to  enter  in  the  spirit  of  a  waltz  or  a  mazurka; 
And  I  find  by  computation  that  I've  worn  out  many 

millions 
Of  this  white  Wisconsin  flooring  lumber,  dancing  square 

cotillions. 

Well!  the  gilded  soldier  buttons  I  was  wearing  seemed 

to  blind  'em, 
While  unseen,  unknown  and  friendless,  I  was  standing 

up  behind  'em; 
But  with  many  happy  moments  my  official  stay  was 

flavored, 
And  I  found  myself  a  guest,  even  more  than  honored, 

favored. 

CHAPTER    IV. 

Well!  there  came  a  grand  old  soiree,  and  the  city  all 
attended, 

And  the  hall  was  hung  with  flags  and  flowers,  and  dec 
orations  splendid; 

And  the  chandeliers  were  shaded  with  a  tissue  gauze 
that  sent  a 

Sort  of  sifted  light  —  suffused  with  a  delicate  magenta. 

And  the  splendid  jewels  glistened,  and  the  ribbons  and 

the  laces 
In  the  tinted  light  seemed  floating,  like  the  drapery  of 

graces ; 


182  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

And  the  rich  brocaded  textures,  with  their  rash,  pecu 
liar  rustle, 

Roared  a  ceaseless,  sullen  bass,  to  the  all  pervading 
bustle. 

Round  the  room  the  ladies  floated,  in  their  moire  an 
tique  and  satin, 

While  the  men,  behind  large  smiles,  bowed  to  this'n 
and  to  that'n, 

And  the  floor  was  full  of  waltzers,  and  the  air  was 
laughter  laden, 

While  the  orchestra,  it  sobbed  like  a  broken-hearted 
maiden. 

And  it  moaned,  and  shrieked,  and  sobbed,  in  a  wail  for 
human  folly, 

While  the  fiddlers  chewed  tobacco  and  looked  very  sol- 
emncolly; 

Then  above  the  caller's  calling,  and  the  wild,  tempestu 
ous  chatter, 

Rose  the  grand  combined  results  of  the  aggregated 
clatter. 

It  was  just  about  this  moment  that  I  made  a  sudden 

entry, 

That  I  added  to  the  list  of  the  dithyrambic  gentry, 
And  I  hardly  had  the  time  to  appreciate  it  fully. 
When  a  chap  I  didn't  know  said  the  thing  was  mighty 

bully. 


NEUTRALIA.  183 

I  demanded  then  who  HE  was,  and  I  frowned  upon  the 

creature; 
He  confessed  his  name  was  Boggs,  that  his  father  was 

a  preacher; 
Then  inquired  of  me  who  I  was,  and  I  said  I  was  an 

aid-de- 
Camp  upon  the  staff  of  Skubobs;  then  he  said  there 

was  a  lady 
That  he'd  like  to  have  me  dance  with;   I  replied  that  I 

was  willing, 

But  I  thought  I  really  needed  some  preliminary  drilling; 
But  he  said  it  was  no  matter,  and  he  thought  that  I 

would  answer, 
For  the  lady  he  would  find  me  was  a  very  charming 

dancer. 

She  would  show  me  through  the  changes,  if  I  needed 
the  instruction; 

Then  I  told  him  to  propel  with  his  threatened  introduc 
tion; 

Now,  my  backwardness  was  -'stuff,"  for  I  had  a  certain 
notion 

That  I  simply  was  immense  on  the  "poetry  of  motion." 

Well!  of  human  nature's  phases,  it's  the  funniest  and 

oddest, 
When  a  man  of  frightful  cheek  makes  an  effort  to  be 

modest. 

CHAPTER  v. 

Yes,  I  took  the  introduction;   Boggs   alleged  her  name 

was  Laura; 
So  I  made  my  finest  bow,  and  I  eyed  the  lady  for  a- 


184  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

Bout  a  half  a  dozen  seconds;  then  I  asked  her  to  de 
termine 

If  she'd  have  me  for  a  partner  in  the  next  ensuing 
German; 

Then  she  smiled  like  the  Madonna,  and  she  told  me 
"  Yes  "  so  neatly, 

That  I  drifted  out  to  sea.  and  she  captured  me  com 
pletely. 

I  have  heard  them  talk  of  Guido,  of  Vandyke,  and  of 
Florello; 

But  I'll  take  my  deposition  that  there  never  was  a 
fellow 

Who  could  plaster  any  pigment  onto  canvas,  or  on 
paper, 

Or  could  ever  make  a  picture  that  could  ever  hold  a 
taper, 

Or  could  ever  be  compared,  as  to  happiness  of  feature, 

Or  to  symmetry  of  form,  with  the  sunny-hearted  crea 
ture 

That  was  pointed  out  by  Boggs,  the  descendant  of  the 
preacher. 

Let  old  Virgil  praise  the  naiads  of  the  rapid,  blue 
Eurotas, 

Spokeshave  dance  his  airy  fairies  on  the  light  leaves  of 
the  lotos, 

If  you  set  them  down  by  Laura,  they  would  never  get 
a  notice; 

She  had  such  a  calm,  bland  way,  and  her  tongue  was 
never  running, 

In  an  endless,  eager  effort  to  say  something  very  cun 
ning; 


NEUTRALIA.  185 

And  she  looked  you  in  the  eye  when  she  spoke  or  when 

she  listened. 
And  you  always  knew  her  feelings  by  the  way  her  blue 

eyes  glistened. 

There  may  be  a  woman  fairer,  with  more  elegant  de 
meanor, 

With  more  useful  information,  calmer,  lovelier,  serener — 
But,  if  there  be  such  a  woman,  this  deponent  hath  not 
seen  her. 

CHAPTER    VI. 

On  her  finger  gleamed  a  diamond,  with  prismatic  hues 
incessant, 

On  her  neck  a  string  of  pearls,  solid  moonlight,  opales 
cent; 

And  upon  her  arms  two  bracelets,  representing  sprays 
of  laurel, 

With  their  petioles  of  gold  and  their  foliage  of  coral. 

Or,  at  least,  they  say  she  wore  them  on  the  evening  of 

the  soiree; 
If  she  did,  I  never  saw  them  —  all  I  thought  or  saw  was 

Laura; 
But  I  guess  she  must  have  worn  them,  for  the  pompous, 

ugly  Madam 
Parvenoodle    since    informed   me   that   "old    Banger's 

daughter  had  'em;" 
But  that  all  of  Laura's  jewels  were  much  cheaper  and 

much  duller. 
And  inferior  to  hers,  both  in  brilliancy  and  color. 

13 


18(>  HHYME8  OF  IKONQUILL. 

Now,  this  Madam  Parvenoodle,  who  disparaged  every 
body. 

Was  the  very  beau-ideal  aristocracy  of  shoddy, 

And  her  husband  made  his  money,  if  I  am  not  much 
mistaken. 

On  a  recent  army  contract  on  some  ancient  army  bacon; 

And,  throughout  her  wide  acquaintance,  she  divided  u\ 
her  slander 

As  between  her  friends  and  enemies,  with  most  impar 
tial  candor: 

And  she  had  a  way  of  talking  so  that  folks  could  un 
derstand  her. 

Well,  that   night   has   flown   forever,  with  its   floor   si 

smoothly  waxen! 
Gone   are   all   those    chestnut    ringlets  —  gone    thost 

tresses  brown  and  flaxen; 
Gone  those  stand-up  paper  collars  —  gone  that  faultless 

Anglo-Saxon: 
But  they  glitter  in  my  fancy  like  the  distant  multi-he 

dral 
Steeples,  domes  and  sunlit  turrets,  of  some   beautifu 

cathedral. 

CHAPTER    VII. 

All    the    next   day.  and  the    next,  that   succeeded   tlu 

grand  soiree. 
I  was  crazy  as  a  June  bug.  all  I  thought  of  was  Miss 

Laura; 
All  the  office  work  got  tangled  with  the  thoughts  o: 

"fields  Elysian," 
And  the  ink  was  slung  regardless  of  a  requisite  pre 

clsion ; 


NEUTltALIA.  187 

All  the  post  returns  got  mixed,  all  the  details  and  the 
orders. 

Till  old  Skubobs  made  remark  that  my  mind  seemed  on 
the  borders 

Of  insanity  or  tremens  —  said  he  thought  he  could  dis 
cover 

Sad.  cerebral  indications  of  the  drunkard  or  the  lover. 

Here  he  tipped  a  knowing  twinkle  at  the  cavalry  in 
spector. 

Colonel  Skopendyke.  and  Chopemup.  the  medical  di 
rector. 

That  was  well  enough  for  Skubobs:  but  the  sutler 
chipped  in  boldly 

With  an  old  azoic  joke,  and  I  told  him.  somewhat 
coldly. 

That  if  any  individual  should  start  a  conversation 

That  would  make  this  girl  the  subject  of  the  slightest 
observation. 

I  would  jam  his  os  frontalis.  (that's  a  Latin  name  I  bor 
rowed 

For  a  bone  a  person  carries.  I  believe  it's  in  his  fore 
head.  ) 

If  there's  any  human  being  that  can   claim   my  deep 

aversion. 

It's  a  sutler  in  the  army  —  it  may  be  a  foul 'aspersion; 
But  when  moralists  are  satirizing  avarice  and  mammon, 
Let  the  philanthropic  skeptic,  who  inclines  to  think  it's 

gammon. 
Watch    a    regimental    sutler    selling    ;- bitters"    and 

canned  salmon. 


188  RHYMES  OF  IRON  QUILL, 

Skubobs  was  a  nice  old  man,  very  courteous  and  pleas 

ant, 

Brave  as  a  Nemean  lion,  in  a  battle  omnipresent; 
He  appreciated  fun,  was  a  dignified  old  ]oker, 
Was  a  splendid  judge  of  horseflesh,  was  an  everlasting 

smoker, 
Punished   ardent  spirits    mildly,  was  a  perfect  whale 

at  poker; 
And  he  knew  his  occupation,  for  he'd  had  a  life-time 

training 
In  the  theory  of  war,  and  the  practice  of  campaigning. 

CHAPTER    VIII. 

There  is    something    in  a  flag,  and  a  little    burnishec 

eagle, 

That  is  more  than  emblematic,  it  is  glorious,  it's  regal, 
You  may  never  live  to  feel   it.  you   may  never   be  ir 

danger, 
You  may  never  visit  foreign  lands,  and  play  the  ro/e  o: 

stranger; 
You  may  never  in  the  army  check  the  march  of  an  in 

vader, 
You  may  never  on  the  ocean  cheer  the  swarthy  cannon 

ader; 
But  if  these  should  happen  to  you,  then,  when  age  is  or 

you  pressing, 
And  your  great,  big,  booby  boy  comes  to  ask  your  fina 

blessing  — 

You  will  tell  him:   Son  of  mine,  be  your  station  prouc 

or  frugal, 
When  your  country  calls  her  children,  and  you  hear  the 

blare  of  bugle, 


NEUTRAL1A  189 

Don't  you  stop  to  think  of  Kansas,  or  the  quota  of  your 

county, 
Don't  you  go  to  asking  questions,  don't  you  stop  for 

pay  or  bounty. 
But  you  volunteer  at  once:   and  you  go  where  orders 

take  you. 
And  obey  them  to  the  letter,  if  they  make  you  or  they 

break  you; 
Hunt  that  .flag,  and  then  stay  with  it.  be  you  wealthy 

or  plebeian; 
Let  the  women,  sing  the  dirges,  scrape   the  lint   and 

chant  the  paean. 

Though  the  magazines  and  journals  teem  with  anti-war 

persuasion. 
And  the  stay-at-homes  and  cowards  gladly  take  the  like 

occasion, 
Don't  you  ever  dream  of  asking.  :'Is  the  war  a  right  or 

wrong  one?  " 
You  are  in  it.  and  your  duty  is  to  make  the  fight  a 

strong  one. 
And  you  stay  till  it  is  over,  be  the  war  a  short  or  long 

one: 
Make  amends  when  war  is  over,  then  the  power  with 

you  is  lying, 

Then,  if  wrong,  do  ample  justice  —  but  that  flag,  you 

keep  it  flying: 
If  that  flag  goes  down  to  ruin,  time  will  then,  without 

a  warning, 
Turn  the  dial  back  to  midnight,  and  the  world  must 

wail  till  morning. 


11)0  RHYMES  OF   111  ON  QUILL. 

CHAPTER    IX. 

Well!  to  shorten  this  narration,  and  prevent  undue  ex 
pansion 

Of  a  melancholy  story,  I  will  merely  say,  the  mansion 

Of  old  Banger  saw  me  often,  in  response  to  invitation. 

As  the  choice,  acknowledged  "brute"  of  the  ••  fairest 
of  creation. " 

And  the  fairest  used  to  send  me  a  diurnal  little  glyphic 

Of  the  hiero-variety —  that  demoiselle  lucific: 

And  to  parties,  balls  and  concerts  we  did  very  often  go 

forth, 
And  we  talked  of  love  and  romance,  moonshine,  poetry 

and  so  forth. 

By  the  sacred   muses   nine,  and   the   elves  and   fairies 

with  'em, 
You  can  just  presume  to  reckon  that  I  got  to  slinging 

rhythm ; 

Oh,  the  way  I  set  'em  up  —  this  young  lady  of  Caucasian 
Antecedents,  from  her  lover,  got  a  stated  daily  ration 
Of  consolidated  -bosh.'1  done  up  somewhat  in  this 

fashion  : 

CHAPTER    X. 

( Ahem  ! ) 
Am  I  but  the  sport  of  fancy? 

Necromancy, 
Has  she  taken 

Me  in  charge  ? 


NEUTRALIA.  191 

My  ideas,  are  they  shattered, 

So  that  scattered 
They  forsaken 

Roam  at  large  ? 
Oh,  I'm  crazy  as  a  loon! 
For  this  very  afternoon 
Down  the  street  I  saw  her  sailing  like  a  barge. 

There's  a  certain  sort  of  feeling 

That  comes  stealing 
Over  me 

When  around  her: 
Every  one  has  an  ideal. 

Is  mine  real? 
Can  it  be. 

Have  I  found  her? 
Is  it  she,  is  it  not? 
That's  the  question  I  have  got  — 
It's  a  question  I  am  going  to  propound  her. 

Never  was  a  knight  more  eager 

To  beleaguer 
Any  town  „ 

That  was  walled; 
Or  to  batter 

Castles  flatter 
At  the  bidding  of  a  crown 

When  it  called 
Than  am  I,  and  I  would  go 
Almost  anywhere,  you  know. 
Why!   I'd  lay  the  mountains  low. 


192  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

Miss  my  dinner, 

Catch  a  comet,  scare  an  earthquake,  drain  the  ocean; 

Crack  a  planet  like  a  nut,  stop  the  motion 

Of  the  sun  and  moon  and  stars,  if  I  could  win  her. 

CHAPTER    XI. 

It's  a  fact  that's  very  certain,  man  is  naturally  stupid. 
And  he  somehow  falls  in  love,  and  he  lays  it  all  to  Cupid; 
And  he  goes  to  rhapsodizing,  and  his  comprehension 

narrow 
Shields  his  idiotic  folly  with  the  allegoric  arrow. 

And  he  throws  away  his  time,  and  he  throws  away  his 

talents  — 
That's  the  way  it  was  with  me.  and  I  guess  I'm  like  the 

balance; 
And   he  loses   just  that  moment  all  his  judgment  and 

discretion, 
When  a  female  little  woman  gets  him  fairly  in  possession. 

When  a  man  is  "dead  in  love,"  the  successful  rumina 
tion 

Of  the  plainest  kind  of  gum  is  a  difficult  vocation. 

"Ah!  this  thing  they  call  affection  is  a  thing  that's  very 
shifting," 

Argued  Skopeiidyke,  the  colonel,  when  he  saw  my  mat 
ters  drifting; 

' '  I  had  better  cut  him  out,  better  give  the  youth  a  lift 
ing— 


NEUTRALIA.  193 

Yes,  I'll  break  up  these  arrangements,  for  I  know  that 

he'll  be  gladder 
In  a  dozen  years  from  now.  than  he  would  be  if  he  had 

her; 
And  I'll  get  the  girl  myself,  and  the  wedding  vow  will 

pass  its 
Sort  of  warranty  conveyance  to  old    Banger's    specie 

assets." 

Then  he  started  in  to.  do  it,  and  he  got  an  introduction, 

And  before  I  knew  my  danger  he  was  carrying  destruc 
tion 

On  the  right  flank  and  the  left,  through  my  hopes  and 
my  ambitions, 

And  assaulting,  one  by  one.  all  my  salient  positions. 

This  same  colonel  was  a  person  very  chatty,  very  fluent, 

Full  of  talky-talk  and  smiles,  and  a  perfect  social  truant; 

He  had  never  been  contented,  he  had  always  been  a 
rambler, 

He  was  every  where  at  home,  an  adventurer  and  gambler; 

He  was  just  the  style  of  person  so  successful  in  re 
cruiting, 

And  it  got  him  a  commission;  but  when  bugles  got  to 
tooting, 

He  skipped  back  and  "grabbed  a  root;"  for  he  couldn't 
stand  the  shooting; 

He  had  not  the  slightest  symptom  of  a  shadow  of  a 
fraction 

Of  a  principle  of  honor  or  integrity  of  action; 

He  had  flown  o'er  land  and  sea,  as  a  sort  of  human 
condor, 

Seeking  for  a  girl  and  fortune  he  could  pounce  upon 
and  squander. 


194  RHYMES  OF  IRON  QUILL. 

So,  in  dealing  with  a  woman  there  was  nothing  to  re 
strict  him, 

One  could  never  be  his  idol,  one  could  always  be  his 
victim; 

And  there  isn't  a  canal  that  has  ever  yet  succeeded 
In  developing  a  mule  having  half  the  cheek  that  he  did. 

CHAPTER    XJI. 

When  the  status  of  affairs  came  before  my  observation, 

I  lit  out  for  Laura's  mansion,  and  embraced — the  first 
occasion 

To  suggest  how  much  I  liked  her;  when  I  had  her  mind 
refreshed  on 

That  to  me  important  topic,  I  propounded  her  a  ques 
tion: 

Would  she  have  me?  would  she  not?  She  requested 
me  to  bother 

That  outlandish  old  persimmon  that  she  called  her  DKAH. 
KIND  father; 

Well!  I  tipped  back  in  my  "cheer,"  found  the  armholes 
of  my  ••  weskit,'' 

Stuck  my  thumbs  in  —  viewed  the  ceiling  —  and  —  con 
cluded —  that  —  I'd  "resk"  it. 

Old  man  Banger  was  a  crabbed,  overbearing,  cross- 
grained  banker, 

And  he  held  onto  his  money  like  a  ship  does  to  its  an 
chor. 

That  a  poor  man  could  be  honest  was  a  fact  he  always 
scouted; 

That  the  end  of  man  was  money  was  a  postulate  un 
doubted. 


NEUTHALIA.  195 

And  he  worked,  and  tugged,  and  worked,  with  the  grim 
determination 

That  he'd  gobble  all  the  currency  there  was  in  circula 
tion. 

Life  for  him  had  just  two  virtues,  and  these  two  he  al 
ways  noticed; 

They  were,  "never  overdraw,"  and  "protect  your  note 
from  protest. " 

When  I  went  to  interview  him  —  Laura's  dear,  beloved 

"  paternal  "- 
There  I  found  him  in  his  office,  in  the  evening,  with 

o " 

the  colonel; 
And  the  colonel  was  a-bragging  of  the  wealth  that    HE 

was  wielding; 
Of  the  real  estate  HE  owned,  and  the  rental   it  was 

yielding, 
And  he   went  on  telling  Banger  how  his   ardent  love 

was  centered 
On    the    blue-eyed    little    Laura,    when    I    came,    and 

knocked,  and  entered. 

Just  as  soon  as  I  beheld  them,  I  as  quickly  apprehended 

That  my  goose  had  just  been  cooked,  and  my  love  affair 
was  ended; 

But  I  could  not  stop  my  action,  it  was  too  late  to  re 
trace  it, 

And  although  I  saw  my  danger,  I  determined  I  would 
face  it. 


196  RHYMES  OF  IRON  QUILL. 

CHAPTER    XIII. 

All  I  had  to  say  I  said;  but  a  glimmer  of  discredit 
Overcame  old  Banger's  features  just  the  moment  that  I 

said  it: 
And  he  rose  upon  his  feet,  and  he  paced  the  room  a 

minute, 
And  he  kept  his  eye  upon  me  with  a  world  of  sarcasm 

in  it. 

••Want  my  daughter,  little  Laura!  well,  I  guess  that  I 

can  answer, 
If  you'll  give  me  just  a  little  information  in  advance, 

sir: 
How  much  'coupons '  are  you  worth,  how  much  'ducats  ' 

can  you  put  up? 
This    'collateral's'  the    stuff.      How  much    'assets'   do 

you  foot  up? 
Little    Laura  is  expensive,   and  I  don't  want    you    to 

court  her 
If   you   haven't  got    'securities'   sufficient   to   support 

her. " 

Here  we  opened  out  our  belfry,  and  replied:    '-Soverial 

dollars' 
Worth  of  recklessness  and  shape,  and  a  box  of  paper 

collars. " 
And  we  weighed  him  out  a  chunk,  (on  that  bone  that's 

got  that  Latin 
Name  we  spoke  of  once  before.)  and  of  course  he  had  to 

flatten. 


NEUTRALIA.  197 

Then  we  turned  upon  the  colonel,  saying:  "John,  we've 

brought  your  saddle 
Home  and  hung  it  on  the  floor."     Here  the  colonel  did 

skedaddle 
Through  the   door  that  we  had  opened  for  his  egress, 

and  he  ran  on 
Down  the  street,  as  if  we'd  shot  him  from  a  twelve-inch 

rifled  cannon. 

Then  we  took  old  Banger  home  in  a  'bus  that  happened 

handy, 

And  we  bade  him  an  adieu  on  the  steps  of  his  veranda; 
And  for  many  days  thereafter  Banger  toted  a  proboscis 
That  was  big  enough  to  fit  on  the  Rhodian  colossus. 

On  the  next  day  came  our  grief  —  hope  showed  nothing 

to  abridge  it  — 
Laura  wore  the  colonel's  ring  on  her  left,  engagement 

digit; 
And  we  thought  when  we  beheld  her  view  us  coldly  like 

a  stoic, 
That   we'd  go  and  do  a    something   most   romantic'ly 

heroic. 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

I  can  give  you  a  prescription  that  will  always   make  a 
hero: 

Go  and  get  a  full-fledge,d  lover  and  reduce  his  hopes  to 
zero; 

Get  a  man  that  loves  a  woman  with  devotion  pure  and 

steady, 
Let  the  woman  ' '  go  back  on  him, ' '  and  your  hero  is  all 

ready; 


198  RHYMES   OF  IRON  QUILL. 

Now  just  turn  him  loose  and  watch  him:  See.  old  Cer 
berus,  he  cringes! 

See!  the  red-hot  gates  are  beaten  from  their  solid, 
brazen  hinges. 

And  ii  ELI/ s  blue  platinum  standards  he  is  sabring  into 
fringes; 

And  he's  dealing  harsh  percussion,  with  a  violence  vol 
canic. 

On  the  hacked  and  battered  helmet  of  his  majesty  Sa 
tanic. 

Who  calls  wildly  on  his  squadrons,  that  are  crumbling 
into  panic. 

I  was  feeling  very  ugly  at  the  present  trying  juncture, 
And  I   made  my  mind  up  fully  that  I  really  ought  to 

puncture 

Colonel  S.  :s  epidermis,  as  a  moral  obligation, 
When  old  Skubobs  got  an  order  for  a  sudden  change  of 

station. 
And  in  eighty  hours  thereafter  we  were  trying  hard  to 

plant  a 

Little  striped  piece  of  bunting  on  the  bastions  of  At 
lanta; 

And  the  vibratory  roaring  of  the  Parrot  and  the  mortar 
G-ave   me  something  else  to  think  of    in  the  place  of 

Banger's  daughter. 

Who  a  thousand  miles  in  safety  from  the  carnival  in 
fernal. 
Was   a-dreaming  of  the  danger  of  her  rich  and  absent 

colonel; 

Who,  not  fancying  the  danger,  got  a  detail  of  employ 
Buying  horses  for  our  army  corps  in  southern  Illinois 


NEVTRA1AA.  199 

All  communities  are  cannon  —  intellect  is  ammunition; 

Man  is  simply  a  projectile,  flung  with  more  or  less  pre 
cision. 

And  the  more  you  jam  him  down,  if  he  only  has  the 
powder. 

Why.  the  higher  up  he  goes,  and  the  gun  it  roars  the 
louder. 

And  the  globe-sight  of  that  cannon  is  a  woman,  and  her 
station 

Is  to  give  the  rash  projectile  proper  flight  and  eleva 
tion— 

To  the  sky  or  to  the  mud  it  must  go  at  her  dictation. 

CHAPTER    XV. 

Well,  we  chawed   'em   at  Atlanta  —  we  whaled  'em,  we 

flailed  'em. 
And   we  raced  them  down  through  Georgia,  till  they 

didn't  know  what  ailed  'em: 
And  we  sang  and  marched  a-fighting.  and  we  fit  and 

sang  a-marching. 
And    we    left    a    belt    of    charcoal   through   a  country 

scathed  and  parching. 
But   the  grub   gave   out  at  last.  GLORY  could  no  more 

elate  us, 
And  we  sighed  for  rice  and  mule-pie,  and  we  foraged 

sweet  potatoes; 
Till  at  last  old   Sherman  told  us:     "Boys,  we're  just 

o-bleeged  to  reach  a 
Little  fleet  of  grub  that's  floating  at  the  mouth  of  the 

Ogeechee; 


200  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

But  a   fort,  my  cherished  bummers,  lies  between  you 

and  the  water, 
And  we've  got  to  live  on  yams  till  you    thieves  have 

gone  and  got  her; 

It's  a  perfect  little  daisy,  and  will  have  to  be  scaladed; 
All  the  parapets  are  steep,  scarp  and  glacis  palisaded, 
And  the  pathway  of  attack  will  be  five-fold  enfiladed." 
Then  he  turned  and  asked  old  Hazen  if  he  thought  his 

thieves  could  make  it. 
"Make  it!"  said  old  Hazen,  "make  it!  ain't  they  just 

o-bleeged  to  take  it!  " 

Oh,  the  way  that  we  went  for  it!  and  in  just  a  holy 
minute 

We  were  through  it,  round  it,  under  it,  and  over  it  and 
in  it; 

Oh,  the  way  we  just  went  through  'em  —  like  a  regi 
ment  of  tunnels! 

Till  we  struck  our  broad  supply  ships,  with  their  fum 
ing,  fiery  funnels, 

And  with  rations  on  their  decks,  piled  six  yards  above 
the  "gunnells. " 

"See  the  bummers!"  said  old  Sherman,  with  most  ele 
gant  emotion, 

"Ain't  their  heads  as  horizontal  as  the  boozom  of  the 
ocean?  " 

Old  Tecumseh.  he  "sasha'd"  in  a  manner  very  frantic, 
And  lean  Corse,  of  steep  Altoona,  he  was  equally  as 

antic: 

They  had  finished  the  campaign  from  Atlanta  to  Atlan 
tic. 


NEUTRALIA.  201 

Then  beside  the  tireless  ocean  did  we  cheer  the  spangled 

banner, 
And  sing   "Grood  bye,  'Lizer  Jane,"  in  an  incoherent 

manner. 

CHAPTER   XVI. 

What  was  little  Laura  doing?  She  was  reading  hasty 
snatches, 

Here  and  there,  of  grand,  old  battles,  in  the  rapid  press 
dispatches; 

She  was  looking  through  the  papers  for  her  rich,  high- 
minded  suitor  — 

He,  the  bravo  of  a  parlor,  he,  the  dashing,  gay  re 
cruiter — 

Who  had  gambled  and  kept  bar,  from  McGregor  down 
to  Natchez  — 

It  was  he  that  she  was  seeking  in  the  rapid  press  dis 
patches. 

Then  she  said:    "If  I  shall  find  him  with  the  wounded, 

dead  or  dying, 
It  will  be  with  FAME'S  bay  chaplet  on  his  manly  bosom 

lying. 

So  intrepid  and  so  fearless  —  ah!  my  colonel,  my  Apollo, 
Being  led  by  such  as  thou  art,  who  is   he  that  dares 

not  follow? 

'  'All  the  world  shall  be  emblazoned  with  thy  rash,  mag 
netic  valor" — 

Here  she  stopped  to  read  a  moment,  and  her  face  it 
blanched  with  pallor, 

14 


202  RHYMES  OF  IRON  QUILL. 

For  she  read  a  little  "local,"  how  the  colonel,  up  at 
Cairo, 

Went  and  gambled  off  his  money  at  a  little  game  called 
"faro." 

With  about  a  hundred  thousand  he  had  wisely  been  en 
trusted, 

So  he  hunted  up  a  "tiger,"  and  he  stayed  with  it  till 
busted; 

And  he  hadn't  bought  a  horse  —  so  the  colonel  rose  and 
"  dusted." 

But  they  captured  him  at  last,  and  they  gave  him  an 
impartial 

Sort  of  trial  down  at  Memphis,  at  a  general  court  mar 
tial; 

And  because  he  fed  the  tiger  with  some  cash  that  wasn't 
his'n, 

They  contracted  for  his  labor  in  a  military  prison. 

Little  Laura  reads  the  local;   not  upon  her  taper  finger 
Does  the  amethystine  circlet  of  the  colonel  longer  linger, 
But  she  throws  it  from  her,  shrieking  —  and  the  blue- 
eyed  little  dreamer, 

Swooning  on  the  Brussels  carpet,  lies  without  a  single 
tremor. 

CHAPTER    XVII. 

Many  years  have  past  and  ended — Colonel  Skopendyke 

is  buried; 
General  Skubobs  reached  the  Senate,  his  opponent  being 

ferried 


NEUTRALTA.  203 

Up  a  salt,  salciferous  streamlet  in  the  kingdom  of  Ken 
tucky, 

Just  because  his  name  wa'n't  Skubobs,  which  was  cer 
tainly  unlucky. 

And  old  Skubobs  he  is  honest,  draws  his  mileage  and 
per  diem; 

There  are  some  who  do  not  like  him,  but  there's  no  one 
that  can  buy  him; 

And  he's  never  absent-minded,  and  you  never  see  him 
walking 

Oil'  and  leave  his  mouth  behind  him  in  the  Senate  cham 
ber  talking. 

Boggs,  the  preacher's  son,  has  vanished;   from  reports, 

as  far  as  we  know, 

He  is  up  in  Kansas  City  and  a-canvassing  for  keno; 
Years  ago,  in  Cowley  county,  with  a  little  twelve-inch 

breaker, 
He  produced  a  crop  of  sod-corn,  sixteen  bushels  to  the 

acre; 

And  he  platted  out  a  city,  but  he  couldn't  show  a  comer 
Any  corners,  for  the  grass  had  grown  so  fearfully  that 

summer. 

Doctor  Chopemup,  the  surgeon,  he  has   lately  gone  to 

giving 
Good  advice  instead  of  pills,  and  he  makes  an  honest 

living; 

O  ' 

He  has  quit  inspecting  pulses  and  regenerating  eye 
balls, 

And  has  gone  to  spreading  tracts,  and  a-hammering  on 
Bibles. 


204  RHYMES  OF  IRON  QUILL. 

As  he  couldn't  save  men's  bodies,  he  assumed  the  use 
ful  task  a- 

Saving  all  the  balance  of  'em,  up  in  Omaha,  Nebraska; 

His  best  hold  is  "immortality,"  and  he  gives  it  to 
them  monthly, 

And  the  deacons  wake  the  snorers  when  he  reaches 
1 '  twenty-onethly. " 

CHAPTER     XVIII. 

Old  man  Banger  is  a  pauper.  When  the  banks  began 
to  crumble. 

And  the  price  of  gold  was  falling,  he  was  ruined  in  the 
tumble. 

All  his  money  and  his  courage  simultaneously  left  him, 

And  unceasingly  he  murmurs  at  the  bad  luck  that  be 
reft  him. 

Since  his  money  has  departed  he  has  nothing  left  but 
timor, 

All  that  mercenary  arrogance  has  gone  without  a  glim 
mer; 

Money  made  him  and  unmade  him,  it  was  all  that  could 
sustain  him; 

Fortune  taking  it  away  irretrievably  had  slain  him. 

Now  a  dreary  monomania  is  slowly  o'er  him  stealing  — 

A  sort  of  "  he-who-enters-here-leaves-hope-behind-him  " 
feeling. 

Any  man  is  BRAVE  with  money;  braver  far  is  he  with 
out  it 

Who  dares  always  act  uprightly,  and  not  fret  himself 
about  it. 


NEUTRALIA.  205 

We    should   keep    our  faith  and  courage;   if  calamities 

assail  us, 
If  misfortunes  swoop  down  on  us,  like  the  vultures  of 

Stymphalus, 

It  will  never  do  to  weaken,  it  is  cowardice  to  fly  them; 
DolikeoldTroilian  Ajax — strike  an  attitude,  defy  them. 
If  we  waver  and  fall  back,  Fate  will  ever  then  be  urging 
Us  like  quarry  slaves  at  night-fall,  homeward  to  our 

dungeon  scourging. 

Madam  Parvenoodle's  husband  is  a  prominent  civilian, 
He  has  sweetened  Uncle  Samuel  for  over  half  a  million ; 
Wherefore  Madam  got  religious,  and  she  jinedthe  church 

for  morals. 
And  she  prates  about  her  Bible,  and  her  neighbors,  and 

their  quarrels; 
And  she  says  she's  got  a  Saviour,  and  a  spanking  span 

of  sorrels. 

Every  man  and  every  woman,  irrespective  of  position, 

Is  a  living,  breathing  romance,  be  they  pauper  or  pa 
trician. 

Each  day's  doings  make  a  pamphlet,  which  we  bind  in 
gold  and  velvet, 

And  beside  preceding  volumes  in  our  memory  we  shelve 
it. 

When  at  evening,  tired  of  labor  at  the  counter,  shop  or 
forum, 

In  our  stocking  feet  we  saunter  into  memory's  sancto 
rum. 


206  RHYMES  OF  IRON  QUILL. 

We  unshelve  these  treasured  volumes,  and  we  silently 

look  o'er  'em; 
Then  we  find,  oh,  fickle  Hope!  how  you  always  hold  back 

from  us 
Just  the  very  things  we  need,  just  the  very  things  you 

promise. 

CHAPTER    XIX. 

When  the  work  of  day  has  ended,  and  the  evening  shuts 
the  skylight, 

When  the  Northern  Crown  and  Hydra  stand  transfig 
ured  in  the  twilight, 

When  Orion's  blazing  girdle  gleams  with  hues  of  gold 
and  lilacs, 

And  around  the  pole  careening  whirls  the  phantom 
Arcto-Phylax, 

Oft  I  go  to  read  these  pamphlets,  in  the  alcove  where  I 

store  them; 

In  the  parlor  of  my  memory,  I  one  by  one  look  o'er  them. 
Wars  are   schoolings  of  the  nations,  and  the  records 

ante-bellum 
Are,  like  palimpsests,  o'erwritten  in  vermilion,  gold  and 

vellum. 

From  the  shelves  I  take  them  gently,  with  their  gold 
and'velvet  covers, 

One  by  one  I  -turn  their  pages,  read  of  heroines  and 
lovers; 

Read  of  recklessness  in  man,  read  of  constancy  in  woman, 

Read  of  marches  and  of  sieges,  and  endurance  superhu 
man, 

Which  the  intervening  years  with  prismatic  hues  illu 
mine. 


NhUTRALIA.  207 

Then  my  fancies  change  to  dreaming,  and  the  chandelier 

burns  dimmer, 
And  its   rays  begin  to  waver,  with  a  pale,   unsteady 

glimmer; 
And  they  wander  o'er  the  ceiling,  and  the  sofa,  floor 

and  curtain, 

With  irresolute  demeanor,  chilly,  gloomily,  uncertain; 
And  they  quarrel  with  the  shadows,  which  they  vainly 

try  to  banish, 
Then   they   gather   up   their   forces   and   mysteriously 

vanish. 

All  at  once  come  indications  of  a  strange,  odylic  presence, 

And  the  atmosphere  and  room  teem  with  magic  phos 
phorescence; 

Brighter  grows  the  room  and  brighter,  and  eaoh  com 
ing  moment  tripples, 

On  the  floor  and  walls  the  lustre  of  the  live,  electric 
ripples. 

And  they  stand  in  bold  relief,  every  moment  growing 
bolder. 

Till  I  feel  some  unseen  fingers  rest  their  weight  upon 
my  shoulder; 

Then  I  feel  the  thermal  currents  of  some  mild,  mes 
meric  aura, 

And  it  whispers  —  I  awaken  — 'twas  the  blue-eyed  little 
Laura. 


ADIEU. 


Oft  the  reasonance  of  rhymes 
Future  hearts  and  distant  times 

May  impress; 
Shall  humanity  to  me, 
Like  my  Kansas  prairies,  be 

Echoless  ? 

IRONQUILL. 


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